by M. L. Huie
“Avez-vous une autre cigarette?” Livy asked.
She didn’t smoke, but she knew that you didn’t deny a stranger a cigarette if you had a pack.
The girl produced a pack of Gauloises and held it in Livy’s direction. Livy took one and begged a light. With a sigh, the girl flicked her a pack of matches. Putting the cigarette between her lips, Livy turned the box over and saw the name of a club printed in faded letters on the outside. It read CHEZ MOUNE.
“Merci,” Livy said, handing the matchbox back to her. She took a quick draw on the cigarette, which made her gag just a bit. She quickly pulled it out.
“You work here at the theater?” Livy asked in French.
The girl gave her a look. “Where are you from?”
“London.”
They both laughed.
“You speak French like a hillbilly,” the girl said, picking tobacco from her lower lip.
“I’m a reporter from an English paper,” Livy said. “I had to get outside for some air. Martel runs a tight ship in there.”
The girl scoffed and turned away. “It’s all about the money now.”
“It wasn’t always like that?”
“Are you writing this down?”
“No.”
The girl let out a long puff of smoke. “They are afraid of losing their audience. Maybe now no one is shocked by all this anymore. They sell magazines with pictures from the Nazi camps at the newsstands. That’s the real horror show.”
A moment passed between the two women then. Just a moment where Livy dropped the mask of the reporter copping a fag and the girl on the dock saw the real Livy. She saw the pain behind Livy’s eyes and seemed to recognize that this reporter had experienced the “real horror” that some postwar Parisians craved.
The girl said nothing about it. She only said, “I’m Lorraine.”
“Livy.”
Livy sat down next to her on the dock and put the cigarette between her lips. She took a short puff and tried not to cough.
“What do you do here, Lorraine?”
“I’m just half-time. I sew costumes, repair them mostly. They get torn a lot. My father works here, so he set me up with this.”
Livy nodded, taking another quick drag.
“You don’t smoke, do you?” Lorraine said.
“That obvious, is it?”
“We got used to telling who was on whose side during the occupation,” Lorraine said. “You had to be careful. Anyone could have been working for the Boche, so you looked for little lies to tip you off.
“My guess is you’re not really a reporter, or not much of one, at least.”
“Maybe not much of one, no.” She dropped the cigarette and crushed it on the street. Girl couldn’t be more than nineteen, Livy thought, and she saw right through me. “But don’t tell Madame Martel. I’d hate to see a grown woman cry.”
“If she cried, that would mean she had a heart,” Lorraine said, rolling her eyes.
“I’m here to find someone,” Livy said, hesitating. She didn’t know if being direct would work, but it seemed her only option. “A woman who used to work here.”
“Do you know how many girls have worked here since the liberation? I can’t count. This place has a revolving door, and it spits them right back out into the Pigalle.”
“I’m looking for Nathalie Billerant.”
Lorraine blanched a bit, nodded, and took the last drag on her Gauloise. “Is she part of your story?”
“I’m looking for her because of a man she knows, a man I need to find.”
“Nathalie knows a lot of men. A lot of women, too,” Lorraine said, stubbing out her cigarette and standing.
“I’ve no quarrel with Nathalie. She said she wanted to meet me about this man. It’s him I’m here to find.”
“They’re going to expect me back inside, so …” Lorraine said. She stopped, glanced back at the stage door, and softly said, “Listen, you tell me something I want to know and I’ll tell you where you might find Nathalie.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“This man you’re looking for—he did something to you?”
“Yes. You could say that.”
“Tell me what he did.”
Livy hesitated. Lorraine didn’t. She turned toward the stage door.
“Hold on,” Livy said, sighing as she thought about what to say. God, she was bad at this. The hell with it. This job has been a cock-up so far. What did she have to lose?
“Yeah, he hurt me,” Livy said. “He killed someone I—someone I cared for. Very much.”
“This man you want worked for the Boche?”
“Yes, he’s French and he worked for the Germans. Un collaborateur,” Livy said.
Lorraine grabbed the knob of the stage door. She held it hard, and the anger radiated up her arm and through her small body.
What’s this girl’s story? Livy wondered. She knew that every Parisian, every European had her own pain from the last six years.
“My father moves the sets here. You’ve seen him, yes? What they did to his face? I’ll help you find this bastard—for him. The Hotel Ritz. It’s a room on the third floor, something like three twelve or three fourteen.”
* * *
Two hours later Livy had made her way to the third floor of one of the most prestigious hotels in the world and stood outside suite 314. One of the maids on the floor had been nice enough to share a bit of her life story with Livy before volunteering that “that mademoiselle never left three fourteen,” making the suite impossible to clean.
Sometimes it pays just to listen, Livy thought.
She didn’t exactly have a plan for what might happen when the door opened, but she felt closer than ever now to Edward Valentine, and the bull didn’t ask the china if it minded being smashed.
Livy knocked on the door and waited. Three, maybe four minutes passed. The door opened. On the other side stood a gorgeous woman, about Livy’s age, with sad blue eyes. She wore a silk dressing gown and held a nasty-looking Beretta, pointed at Livy’s chest.
No one spoke for a long moment.
Then Nathalie Billerant’s finger tightened on the trigger and she said, “Get out of the hall and close the door, or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”
Chapter Fifteen
Livy eased into the foyer of the suite and closed the door, keeping her eye on Nathalie and the gun the whole time. They stood in a ten-foot-long walkway that led to the room itself. Behind Nathalie, Livy got a glimpse of gold elegance: rugs that gleamed and an opulent sitting area that looked out on a breathtaking view of the city.
“Who are you?”
A complicated question, requiring a very precise answer, or else she might be unavailable for future inquiries.
Like they’d taught her at SOE camp, the best lie had elements of truth. “Olivia Nash. I’m a reporter.”
Nathalie blinked. Not the answer she’d expected. She didn’t move the gun, though. Livy knew she meant business, and judging by the lack of any perspiration on her brow or her trigger finger, there was a good chance she had used that little pistol before.
Luc could pick ’em, no doubt, Livy thought. This woman looked like she belonged at the Ritz. Even though she’d probably had only enough time to grab her dressing gown and pistol before opening the door, she looked like a million francs. Her brown hair, cut in a timeless bob, framed a perfectly symmetrical face with lips just this side of pouty and eyes that shimmered even as they narrowed.
“I don’t believe you,” she said. “Tell me why you’re here right now, or I’ll shoot.”
Livy understood now. Nathalie was scared. That made her dangerous.
“I was sent here to talk to you.”
Livy could see she’d said the wrong thing. Nathalie’s eyes blazed. Her whole body seemed to stiffen. “Did he follow you?”
“I wasn’t followed.”
“How do you know? Hmm? He’s clever. He knows what he’s doing. You could have led him right to me.”
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A million questions swirled through Livy’s head, but she had to focus on keeping this almost hysterical woman from shooting her. She put her hands in front of her slowly to show she meant no harm.
“I made sure I wasn’t followed. I promise.”
“Then how did you find me?” Nathalie brought the gun up higher, pointing it at Livy’s head. They couldn’t have been more than six feet apart. Livy had nowhere to hide.
“I asked at the theater, where you used to work. They told me. Look, luv, I wasn’t followed and I don’t mean you any harm. I came here for you. You asked for help, and I’m here. At your request. Just be a bit careful with that. Guns tend to go off from time to time.”
“The British sent you?” She held the Beretta steady, but her trigger finger seemed a tad too jumpy for Livy’s liking.
“That’s right. Put your gun down and we can talk. That’s all I’m here for.”
For a brief moment, the hardness left Nathalie’s eyes, and Livy believed she might actually put the gun away and they could get down to business. But a thought flickered in the Frenchwoman’s eyes, and just like that the moment evaporated.
“Tell me your name again?” Nathalie said, the hysteria back in her voice. The jumpiness shook her trigger finger.
“Olivia Nash.”
“Menteuse!” Nathalie hissed. “Filthy liar! Get out. Get out now!”
More than a bit confused about what she was supposed to be lying about, Livy backed toward the door. She hoped Nathalie might make the novice mistake of getting too close with the gun so Livy could risk disarming her. But this woman knew how to use a weapon. She held her ground, even steadied it with both hands.
Maybe it was the tension of being held at gunpoint. Maybe it was the thought that if she managed to stay alive, she might leave the room empty-handed. Livy’s face suddenly felt hot and her jaw clenched. She’d faced off against rougher customers than this bit o’ crumpet.
“Do you know how loud that gun is going to be when you fire it?” she said, snapping. “Have you thought about that? Or what you’ll do with my body? Toss it out the window, maybe?”
Nathalie blinked but held the gun steady.
“I don’t believe you’ve thought this through, have you, luv?” Livy went on. Bravado aside, she was one bad decision away from bleeding all over the expensive Ritz rug.
“We’re alone, all right? I know your boyfriend, sweetie, and you can be bloody well sure he didn’t follow me.”
“My boyfriend?” Nathalie asked.
“Valentine.”
Nathalie’s eyes widened and, unbelievably, the corners of her mouth turned up in a grin. “Edward?” she said. Then she laughed, a sort of exhalation that seemed to release her whole body from the tension that had held it so tight.
She kept the gun aimed, though.
The spasm of relief passed, and Nathalie looked hard at Livy, the smile gone. “I am a single woman, a guest of this hotel—the finest in Paris. You are an intruder. I have a right to protect myself. Maybe you are a communist. They are everywhere, you know. No one would blame me for shooting a communist. So my advice to you, Mademoiselle Nash, is to leave quietly and remember—I will find you.”
Livy didn’t have much choice. She eased toward the door, her hand feeling for the knob. Nathalie stepped forward, gun ready.
As she heard the click on the latch, Livy stopped. “When Edward does come back, tell him I look forward to our reunion.”
That did it. The hard mask of Nathalie Billerant’s face fell for a second. Livy saw the recognition and confusion her words caused. The Frenchwoman’s luscious mouth fell open and her eyes flashed again. Livy didn’t hesitate. She’d spent quite enough time staring at the unpleasant end of le mademoiselle’s metal friend.
Closing the door to the suite, Livy trotted across the elegant carpet toward the third-floor lift. Her heartbeat raced and her breath came in staccato spurts. She hoped she’d gone the right direction for the lift; she didn’t fancy a double back. Then she heard the ding and the ornate doors opened. She stepped inside the thankfully empty car and slumped against the back wall. Livy pressed the lobby button, trying to normalize her breath.
She had only two floors to get herself together. Livy adjusted her jacket and smoothed her hair. God, she felt so clear. This was how it had felt walking into that Gestapo station. This was what she’d missed. Her whole body craved it, because she knew internally, somehow, how to calm herself when she had no reason to be.
As the lift reached the lobby and the doors opened, Livy relaxed.
Standing in the lobby, waiting to go up, stood the familiar bald, round figure of Le Grand Diablo. Livy stared at him for a second. He looked different somehow. No corny mustache. He stared back, waiting for her to exit the lift. Finally she stepped out, and Diablo brushed past her. He huffed his impatience.
Livy stopped. Her visit to Nathalie might have been for naught, but chance had presented her with another opportunity to get some answers. The doors were about to close behind her. She got back on the lift and pressed the third-floor button. Pivoting quickly, Livy put her hand up to stop an older woman with two shopping bags full of shoes.
“Closed for repairs,” Livy said, trying to sound as official as possible.
Before she could protest, the doors shut. The lift lurched upward.
“What do you mean, this lift isn’t—” Diablo swallowed his sentence as the flat end of Livy’s right hand crashed into his windpipe. A deep gurgle rumbled out of his throat, and he crumpled to the floor. Livy had pulled the punch. Otherwise she would have shattered his esophagus and Diablo would be dead. And of no use to her.
Still, as he was a big man, Livy couldn’t very well toss him around. She knelt beside him and pinned his throat to the back of the lift with her forearm. He grimaced. His breathing sounded like a backed-up sink.
“I saw your act last night,” Livy said. “I know you can’t talk right now, so I’m going to ask a question and you can answer by nodding. Can you do that?”
He didn’t respond. Livy added a bit more pressure with her elbow. She repeated the question. This time Diablo seemed a bit more cooperative.
“That card trick with the ace-of-spades deck—did you learn that from a magician called Mephisto?”
After a moment, he nodded.
“The trick was a signal to someone, wasn’t it?”
Diablo’s eyes widened, but his head didn’t move.
“Do I need to repeat the question?” She pressed his damaged neck harder.
Very slowly, he nodded.
The doors opened behind her and Livy stood. The gods smiled on her this time, because no one was waiting for the lift. She stepped out into the hallway.
“Tell him Livy Nash has a proposition for him,” she said, turning back to the slumped magician. “Tell him I won’t wait forever.”
* * *
Livy left the hotel and retraced her steps back across the city. She hated feeling backed into a corner, and that’s exactly what Nathalie had done. Valentine’s French mistress called the shots for now, so Livy could only wait. She hated that. At least during the war there had been a sense of control. Her job with the Firm had been to attack, to be the thorn in the side of the enemy and to invigorate the resistance. Peter used to laugh at her, saying there weren’t enough bridges in France for her to blow up.
Nathalie had information, yet she was so afraid of someone that she might have shot Livy, the person who had come to help her. Why was it so damned hard to get an audience with this woman? Livy’d taken her anger out on Diablo in the lift. The side of her hand still ached. At least he’d confirmed the trick had been a signal. Clearly Nathalie, or maybe even Valentine himself, had been in the theater last night. The trick might even have been a signal to alert someone to Livy’s presence. Or Vance’s.
By this time she’d reached the Grand Palais and turned toward the right bank of the Pont Alexandre III, which was in Livy’s estimation the most beautiful brid
ge in Paris. Maybe the bridge’s ornate statues of the Fames and its carved nymphs overlooking the Seine lacked subtlety, but God, it was gorgeous. She took her time crossing the bridge and watched as the sun began its descent over the Eiffel Tower and the western half of the city.
She stopped a few more times on the half-hour walk back to her flat. She grabbed a crepe at one of the stands near the tower and took stock of everyone who walked past her. Livy finished the treat before finally turning back along the Seine and making her way toward Quai de Grenelle. Her feet ached. She must’ve walked ten miles today. Rest was what she needed, even on the small bed at Madame Riveaux’s.
As she neared the unassuming front stoop of the boardinghouse, Livy noticed the particular square-shaped wagon associated with the Parisian police. Two officers, in their blue uniforms and distinctive kepis, stood on either side of the front door.
Livy had run Gestapo gauntlets, so whatever threat these men posed didn’t cause her concern. She felt the beginnings of a headache behind her eyes as the tension from her confrontation with Nathalie began to release.
“Mademoiselle Nash?” The larger of the two officers spoke. He had a full gray mustache and hooded eyes, giving him a sleepy look.
As Livy acknowledged her name, the younger officer stepped forward.
“I am afraid, mademoiselle, we must take you to our headquarters for questioning. You have been charged in a serious matter. Assaulting a French national. Please come with us.”
Chapter Sixteen
The French national Livy was accused of assaulting happened to be one Antoine Jabot, who performed under numerous aliases, one of which was Le Grand Diablo.
Livy sat in a small holding room—not so much a cell, since it had a square table and wooden chair—and wondered which had come first: the chicken or the egg. She’d been arrested less than two hours after her tussle with Diablo in the Ritz lift. Maybe he had immediately reported the assault to hotel staff, who had then contacted the police and located Livy’s Parisian address. She couldn’t rule out that Charles Gray of the U.S. Embassy had made good on his threat and found a way to get Livy off the streets. Diablo just happened to be a convenient method of accomplishing that.
