She uncorked a bottle of table wine and motioned for Marie Claire to sit. How old was this girl? she wondered. She couldn’t be more than twenty, perhaps twenty-two at most.
“I forgot how gray Paris gets in November. It’s easier to hide in the fog. Have you anything to eat? I’m starving.”
“If one were to survive in occupied France on ration cards, there would be nothing to eat but turnips and pigeons caught from the Tuileries. Luckily, when the English drop weapons, they also drop money, so you and I can eat.” Françoise lifted the pot off the pan and let the steam flush her face. “A kilo of potatoes costs forty-five francs on the black market and a kilo of peas the same. The only problem is, I have an hour of gas a day, and it comes on when it turns on. Luckily, it came on in time for me to cook you something to eat. Why don’t you wash up, and I’ll make up the plates?”
The lights flickered and then went out. Françoise lit a single candle, and they sat down to the meal.
“How is it?”
“It’s good, thank you,” Marie Claire said gratefully, trying not to shovel food into her mouth too quickly.
“Marlene Dietrich taught me how to cook when I was younger.” Françoise could feel Marie Claire’s eyes look her over.
“The movie star?”
“Yes, the movie star,” Françoise said as she poured them both another glass of wine.
“How did you meet her?” Marie Claire asked.
“I was working as a masseuse in a hotel in Cap d’Antibes, and she came in for a massage. One thing led to another, and now I know how to cook.”
Through the candlelight, Françoise could see Marie Claire blush.
“Does that mean you were . . .”
“Yes, we were lovers. She set me up in a bar in Paris, which the Nazis promptly closed when they decided to come for an extended stay. Now I work for both the Resistance and the British. Perhaps one day, when the Nazis pick up and leave, I will open another bar. So you understand how this is all to work now? Three times a week you will go to the boîtes aux lettres, and in it there will be the message you must transmit. If the letter box changes, Amelie will let me know.”
Françoise looked up and saw that Marie Claire had stopped eating.
“I thought you were hungry.”
Marie Claire picked up her glass of wine, and her hands began to shake.
Françoise reached over, took the wineglass from Marie Claire’s hands, and pulled the trembling young woman toward her.
Paris, 1949
“Did you love her?” Slim asked.
Françoise drained her snifter. “I did, and then it got complicated.”
“Doesn’t it always?” Slim thought of Daniel.
“Yes, especially when you get caught.” Françoise smiled sadly.
Paris, 1942
Françoise and Marie Claire developed a pattern. On Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, Marie Claire would disappear in either the early morning or late afternoon to transmit, and afterward, they would spend the evening in bed. As the days grew into weeks and fall folded into winter, their lovemaking became more desperate and at times almost rough. Françoise knew Marie Claire’s time was running out, and she wanted to punish Marie Claire for making her fall in love.
The day before Marie Claire’s six-month anniversary in Paris, Amelie discovered that the latest letter box had been compromised. Because the information she was delivering was time sensitive, Amelie decided to break protocol and give it to Marie Claire. It would also give her an excuse to see Françoise, whom she had not seen for months.
When no one answered at the apartment, Amelie let herself in with the key Françoise had given her. In the kitchenette, she noticed a half-eaten meal on the table and a spilled glass of wine. For a moment, her heart sank. Had both Marie Claire and Françoise been picked up? If that was the case, she needed to leave immediately.
Making her way to leave, she heard a woman cry out. She rushed to the bedroom and opened the door. Françoise was on top of Marie Claire, making love to her. Sensing someone from behind her, Françoise turned around and saw her old lover’s shocked expression. Amelie fled from the room and was halfway down the stairs before Françoise could catch her.
“Amelie, I’m sorry,” Françoise said, grabbing her by the shoulder.
The sobbing woman pushed Françoise away. “You screw anything with a pussy. You’re worse than a man,” she said as her tears spilled into sobs.
“Cherie, it’s this war. It’s turning us all into animals. Why are you here?”
Amelie regained her breath and said as calmly as she could, “The letter box was compromised, and I’ve been transferred to the Comet network in Roussillon. Tell Marie Claire that she should meet her new contact, Michel, on the east side of the Place de la Concorde at noon today, and she must transmit tomorrow. Now get your hands off me before I scream.”
Françoise dropped her hands, and Amelie hurried down the stairs.
Paris, 1949
“It’s weird, though, that Amelie never mentioned she had been lovers with you.”
“Why would she? We didn’t part on what you would call good terms. Anyway, that is the last time I saw Amelie,” Françoise said as she stubbed a cigarette out into the now-littered ashtray.
“And what about Marie Claire?”
“I gave Marie Claire the message. She met her contact that afternoon and transmitted the next day, and then I never saw her again.”
“Do you think Amelie ratted Marie Claire out?”
“I’ve always wondered, but could she really have done that?”
“A jealous woman can be a vindictive woman,” Slim said, noting the obvious.
“Yes, but I guess we will never know.” Françoise reached for her packet of cigarettes. Finding it empty, she crumpled the box between her fingers.
“Françoise, Amelie is still alive.”
“Alive?” Françoise looked up, startled, her voice almost shouting, “What do you mean she’s alive?”
Françoise uncorked the bottle of brandy with shaking hands and poured them each another draught. Slim knew they’d get through the bottle tonight. She’d regret it tomorrow, but if it was needed to make Françoise talk, then so be it. “I had lunch with her yesterday at la Tour d’Argent. She’s one of the agents Miss Chapman wanted me to meet. Maybe you should talk to her.”
“I hurt her very deeply. I doubt that she would want to see me again.”
“Do you think you hurt her enough to betray Marie Claire?”
Françoise shrugged. “I cannot imagine that she would want Marie Claire to wind up in the hands of Keiffer.”
“Who’s Keiffer?”
“You mean who was Keiffer. He was hanged for war crimes. He was in charge of the SD at 84 Avenue Foch.”
Paris, 1949
The next morning, Michel telephoned a very hung over Slim apologetically to say that he had been called away on urgent business, but as soon as he was back, he’d be in touch.
Slim calmed her raging headache from all the brandy she’d drunk the night before with aspirin tablets washed down with sips of water. After a bracing cold shower, she noticed that Remy had brought up a bowl of hot coffee with a croissant. Slim sat down, opened her notebook, and started to write down what she knew so far.
Keiffer, the man in charge of interrogating the SOE agents, had been hanged, and most likely, his underlings had died in the final months of the war or folded themselves back into the fabric of German society. No, the Germans could not talk to her, but who would? Who could tell her what had happened to Marie Claire after she was arrested?
She picked up the phone and dialed Michel, hoping maybe he could point her to someone who could help her, but there was no answer. She tried five more times before giving up. He had left before she could talk to him. Frustrated, she slammed the receiver down, and almost immediately, the phone rang. It was Dennis. He wanted to meet at Pont Neuf.
Half an hour later, they were strolling by the Seine, each of t
hem sipping a warm Coca-Cola through paper straws bought from a street vendor.
“This heat is brutal,” he said, surrendering to a bench. Slim joined him. They had been walking in silence for half an hour, and every time Slim broached the subject of what might have happened at 84 Avenue Foch with Marie Claire and Keiffer, Dennis refused to answer.
“I don’t understand why you won’t answer any of my questions, Dennis,” she said, loosening the leather straps of her sandals, which were cutting into her feet.
“Let me ask you a question. Why did you take on this case, Miss Moran?” Dennis asked as he wiped the dripping sweat from his forehead.
“Because Miss Chapman hired me,” Slim explained, “and that’s what I do; I find people.”
“We told you that Marie Claire was dead, did we not?”
“Yes.”
“Then why don’t you believe us?”
“Because my client thinks she’s alive.”
“And if she were alive, why is it necessary for Chapman to find her now?”
“Marie Claire’s mother is dying, and she made a promise to her that—”
“Did you just say that Marie Claire’s mom is dying?”
“Yes.”
“Marie Claire’s mother died in 1946.”
“How do you know that?” Slim asked.
“After the war, I wrote to her and told her what had happened to her daughter. Of course, I sanitized what happened; to tell a mother such a thing would have been cruel. But my letter was sent back, marked Recipient deceased. Return to sender. I could dig it up to show you.”
“Why would Miss Chapman lie?” Slim asked, confused.
“I’m sure she has her reasons. You should be careful. It’s been less than five years since the war ended. Some people still have scores to settle, and you don’t want to be caught in the middle. That’s all I have to say. I wish you a good day, Miss Moran.” Dennis got up and left before Slim could even say goodbye.
Slim stayed a bit longer and watched the sweltering Parisians cool off by diving into the Seine. She wondered if Miss Chapman had lied about Marie Claire’s mother being alive. And if so, was she also lying about having received those recent messages? She knew there was only one way to find out: she’d have to go to London. But first, she needed to find out more about 84 Avenue Foch. Perhaps Marlene would know. After all, the other night she admitted that she knew Bill Donovan, the head of the American foreign-intelligence organization, the Office of Strategic Services, or the OSS. He would surely know whom to call.
Chapter Four
Paris 1949
“The secret to perfect scrambled eggs is not to leave them on the heat too long. It makes them rubbery. And use real cream, not milk,” Marlene said, doling out a portion to Slim in the dining room of her apartment on the Avenue Montaigne.
“But perhaps Bill Donovan would know if anyone who worked at Avenue Foch was still alive,” Slim persisted. She had been haranguing Marlene for the better part of an hour to call him.
“Eat, mein liebes kind.” Marlene sat down and glared at Slim until she took a bite. At heart, Marlene was just a German hausfrau.
“And the toast. Take a bite of toast.”
Slim took a bite of toast. “Oh, come on, Marlene. Just one phone call, please . . .”
“Darling, I am leaving today for London to film Stage Fright for Hitch,” Marlene said, referring to Alfred Hitchcock’s latest thriller. “If I had the time to help you, I would, but I simply do not.”
“You told me the other night that you were bored, that you missed the war.”
“You’re not eating, Slim, and it is upsetting me.”
“I’ll eat if you help me.”
Marlene glared at her and then picked up the telephone on the side table near the door. She dialed a couple of numbers and then said, “Please may I speak to Colonel Donovan?” There was a pause. “Tell him Marlene is on the line.” Not more than half a minute went by, and then she purred, “Bill, darling, I have a favor to ask of you.”
An hour later, Slim had the contacts she needed, and by the afternoon, she was at Gare de l’Est on an overnight train to Hanover, Germany. After she had settled her things in a first-class sleeper, she made her way to the dining car, where white tablecloths and silver had been laid for dinner service. The coach was starting to fill up, and Slim was shown a table in the back. She ordered a martini and perused the menu. Half of Europe is still starving, and I’m deciding between squab and the Châteaubriand, she thought guiltily.
Minutes later, while she sipped a briny vodka martini, a balding man with Clark Gable’s signature thin mustache approached her table. “Excuse me,” he said in German-accented French, “don’t I know you?”
“I don’t see why you would,” Slim said a bit coldly, trying not to encourage any familiarity. She hated being harassed by men, and because she was young and quite beautiful, it was a daily occurrence.
“I know you from the Hôtel Lutetia. You worked for the Red Cross, did you not? You helped me when I was trying to locate some of my wife’s relatives. I’m afraid I’m a bit fatter and balder now.”
Slim’s jaw dropped. “Herr Wiesenthal? Of course, I remember you. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.” She remembered his case file. All eighty-nine relatives on both his and his wife’s sides had been murdered, either during the liquidation of the Lvov ghetto or at the Belzec concentration camp.
“May I join you?” He motioned to the empty chair.
“Of course. How are you? How is Frau Wiesenthal?” She remembered how frail his wife was when they first had come into the center to get help.
“Thank you for asking. Sadly, Cyla’s health was ruined by the war.”
“But what about your daughter?” Slim remembered the bright little girl who had run about boisterously through the halls of the hotel.
Wiesenthal’s face lit up. “How kind of you to ask after her. Paulinka is the light of my life and very well, thank you. So, may I ask why you are traveling to Germany?”
“Let me tell you over dinner. Can I cajole you to dine with me, Herr Wiesenthal?”
“I would be delighted, Miss Moran.” Wiesenthal bowed slightly.
Slim signaled for the waiter, and after they had ordered, she explained she was en route to the British-occupied zone of West Germany to interview the only member of the SD at Avenue Foch who hadn’t been executed. She hoped he could shed some light on a missing person’s case.
“So, Miss Moran, you are what the Americans call a gumshoe?” Herr Wiesenthal winked while cutting into schnitzel.
“A gumshoe? You mean a detective. I suppose I am. It makes me sound like a character out of a Dashiell Hammett or an Agatha Christie novel.” She laughed. “And what are you doing now, Herr Wiesenthal?”
“I hunt down war criminals for the OSS and help bring them to justice.”
“And who are you on the trail of?” Slim asked.
“Klaus Barbie, also known by his moniker, the Butcher of Lyon.”
“I’m sure the French would like him strung up and quartered for what he did to Jean Moulin,” Slim said with a shudder.
“Not only Jean Moulin, but also those forty-four Jewish children hiding in the orphanage in Izieu that he had rounded up and sent to Auschwitz.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s either hiding out in the Black Forest with a bunch of diehard Gestapo members, or he’s working for the Americans doing counterintelligence against the Soviets.”
“How could he be of any use to the Americans?”
“He’s an expert in torture. He can make anybody talk, even a Russian. I want to find him and deliver him to the French for trial, but he is a protected man, and in truth, people are losing interest. They want to put the war behind them.”
“You don’t seem to have done so, Herr Wiesenthal.”
“Nor will I. The day I was liberated from Mauthausen, I weighed ninety pounds. My family was gone. But within three weeks, I put together over
a hundred names of guards, commandants, and high-ranking Nazis who I thought should be brought to trial, and most were. I will never stop my pursuit of justice.”
“But if interest wanes . . .”
“There is no statute of limitations for crimes against humanity. Miss Moran, the history of man is the history of crimes, and history can repeat itself. So information is a defense. Through this we can build, we must build a defense against repetition.”
“Maybe that’s why you survived—to do this,” Slim said.
“Yes, survival is a privilege. I ask myself every day, what can I do to bring justice for those who were not as lucky as I? But sadly, I know that most of the Nazis who should be tried will either escape or resume their lives where they left off before the war. They say most of the German and Austrian police forces are made up of former SS members.”
“So, you don’t believe in denazification?” Slim referred to the process by which the allies tried to remove Nazism and its influence from the culture, press, economy, judiciary, and politics of German society and Austrian society.
“For the Wehrmacht soldiers fortunate enough to get back from the Russian Front? Yes, I believe there is hope for them. For the Einsatzgruppen, death squads, who shot the Jews of Zboriv in front of ditches they were made to dig, there can be no denazification. For them, justice must come.” He took a sip of his tea. “Miss Moran, our jobs are not that different. We are both seeking the truth to an almost unsolvable question. One which never would have existed if the Nazis had not come to power.”
They spoke at greater length, and as the evening drew to a close, Slim asked him, “Do you have any advice for me tomorrow?”
“You mean, how should you conduct the interview?”
“Yes.”
“Miss Moran, when these men are stripped of their Hugo Boss uniforms and whips, they seem like ordinary people, not the monsters they are. Don’t be taken in by them. This man might have the information you need, so my advice is to be brutal but charming.” He stood up. “I am afraid I must say goodbye now.”
The Lost Spy (Slim Moran Mysteries) Page 6
