by M. L. Huie
Livy went on. “Second, I’ll do everything I can to help you, but I want to see where this talent agent was killed, and I want to talk to Jabot as well.”
“You don’t want much, do you?”
“Yes or no?”
“So your plan is to just walk into a French police station?” he asked.
“I walked into a Gestapo headquarters during the war. Getting into a Paris police station will be easier than eating crepes suzette. Finally, whatever happens as a result of our interrogation of Jabot will be mutually beneficial to both our governments.”
“Do you realize what happens to both of us if the police pick you up?”
“Those are the terms. Take ’em or leave ’em.”
Their eyes held each other’s. Searching. No smiles. Silence. Waiting. Livy’s stomach flip-flopped. Outside a car horn echoed down the lane. Finally, Vance spoke.
“Fine. Like you said, we’re in this together. Proper colleagues. But if something happens—something neither of us can see right now—then it’s every man for himself.”
“And every woman, luv.”
* * *
During the flight, Vance thumbed through a worn copy of Look magazine with Gregory Peck on the cover. Livy tried to sleep, but unanswered questions plagued her like the ghosts of the dead. Still, she put her head back and did not stir until the plane touched the tarmac.
She used a phone at the arrivals desk to call Allard and let him know she’d returned. “I’m doing a bit of freelance work at the moment, but it ties in to the previous story I filed for Kemsley. I hope you’ll pass this message along to the editor. He might be interested in this new piece once it’s finished.”
Ever the professional, Allard said her work “sounded interesting” and promised to “keep her in mind if his Paris contacts developed an interest in her.” But his usually unflappable BBC radio voice stumbled a bit as he spoke. Livy imagined Allard ringing up Fleming immediately. She wondered how the news might be received at the Kemsley office in London. Would Fleming welcome the news? Or was it more likely his wide mouth would turn down and he’d light another cigarette while ruing the day he’d ever walked into that pub?
As they walked through the airport, Livy felt a familiar surge, part adrenaline and part fear. She and Vance steered clear of police officers and their military counterparts, the gendarmerie. Livy linked her arm with Vance’s as they strolled, like a couple on holiday. Livy pointed at the signs in French, leaned on his shoulder, and even gave him a kiss on the cheek as he hailed a taxi. Her exterior masked the anxiety that gripped her. The police could be trouble, but Livy knew seeking answers to the questions that plagued her was a dangerous route.
They approached the customs desk, arm in arm. She offered her passport to the blue-uniformed officer. He looked it over and then smiled up at her.
“Bienvenue, mademoiselle.”
Livy took back her passport with a smile and wondered if she’d ever see London again.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Just over an hour later, Livy and Tom stood in front of a four-story building of flats in the Montmartre district of the city in the eighteenth arrondissement. This area of the city had always been Livy’s favorite. It was the part of Paris that seemed the most Parisian. She loved the great hill from which the district derived its name, as well as the vibrant art culture, the nightclubs and cafés, the funicular cable car, and of course the Sacré-Coeur.
But on this particular sunny afternoon, her focus rested on the architecture of the building before her.
“Very nice place,” Livy said.
Vance nervously looked up and down the street.
“Stop twitching, Tom.”
“He was shot inside, you know. We might find out a little more in there. Plus, we’d be less conspicuous than standing here on the street in the middle of the day.”
Livy smiled at him. “You’re cute when you’re nervous. Look at this place, though. How much do you think one flat might cost? I’ll lay you ten to one the Germans occupied this whole block during the war. They took all the best spots.”
“So what exactly are we to make of this, Miss Marple?”
“Come now, Tom. You told me yourself that the man who was shot—Milos—was in his forties, with a wife and three little ones all under ten. And here he goes and buys a flat in oh-so-posh Montmartre? I feel certain the missus would much rather he have spent the money on food or maybe a maid to help around the house.”
“This feels like his little romantic getaway. Somewhere discreet for a mistress or two.”
“Could be. Place like this doesn’t come cheap.”
Vance blinked at her. “The car. He bought a brand-new car the day he was shot. The police towed it in. Nice one, too. Red. Soft top.”
“And didn’t you tell me he was just a midlevel talent agent? So where does he get all this money to buy a car and rent a flat in this part of Paris?” Livy could feel it. The well-kept secrets of the Mephisto list were starting to spill out into the open.
* * *
The flat in question was on the right at the top of the second-floor landing. Vance had given the concierge a wad of francs that afforded them ten minutes to look around.
Since it was the middle of the day, the maid seemed to be the only one in the building aside from the concierge. She gave them both a quick nod as they entered.
Everything about the building said money. The floors in the lobby had the sheen of marble, even if they weren’t. The banister appeared to have been hand carved, with deep detail in the woodwork. Livy reckoned a building this elegant must have been an enclave for the Germans during the war. Maybe that’s why everything looked so new and shiny inside; the owners had wanted to scrub away any trace of the former Nazi tenants.
They stood outside flat number fourteen. Livy tried the door. Locked.
“You have a key, then,” Livy said to Vance.
“Are you kidding? We have no jurisdiction here.”
“So the francs you gave the concierge got us in the building but not the flat?”
Vance shrugged.
Livy leaned against him, her voice a whisper. “You got taken. Everyone thinks you Yanks have all the money in the world.”
“We do,” he said.
The maid on the floor below gave the wall sconce near the door one final swish of her dusting rag and turned toward the door when Livy called to her from above. She hesitated. Her eyes narrowed as Livy bounded down the stairs and approached her slowly.
“Excusez-moi, s’il vous plaît,” Livy said, switching to French. Suspicion clouded the maid’s face as her gaze flicked up to Vance and back to Livy. She’d have to be won over. Livy smiled at the woman and asked her name.
At first she hesitated; then said, “Alis.”
“I’m sorry to be holding you up from your work, Alis. I know you have things to do, but I’m a journalist from a British newspaper in London. I write about Paris for my paper. I came here to find out more about why the man was killed in flat number fourteen.”
“I don’t know anything,” the maid muttered.
“I know you don’t. Of course. And frankly, from what I know of him, he seemed like a pig. God rest his soul. But why he was killed might be very important.”
Alis shrugged as if to say, What do you want from me?
“If you have a passkey, would you let my friend and me step into the flat for two minutes? Two minutes is all we need.”
The maid shook her head and turned away.
Livy went on. “I know you could lose your position here over something like that. But you could stand with us the whole time. Two minutes and we’re gone.”
Alis’s tight lips didn’t budge. This one would need more convincing.
Livy leaned in closer and lowered her voice. “I would never do anything to jeopardize your position here. I wouldn’t ask if—well—my position is at stake, too. See the Yank up there?” She nodded over her shoulder at Vance. “He’s in line for my job.
My editor thinks a man can do it better. So you see, I need to see the room, Alis. Where it happened. Then maybe I can write something good enough to convince them to give me another chance.”
Alis’s stare could have melted the polar ice caps.
Livy nodded. “Right. How does fifty francs sound?”
Alis held out her hand. Livy dug into her purse and counted out the money. The maid watched her carefully and then stuffed the cash into her apron.
“You are not with the police?” she said.
“No, not at all. We’re journalists.”
“I will tell you, but not him,” Alis said, with a look up to Tom on the landing. She lowered her voice. “I saw him.”
“Who?”
“The man who did it. I think it was him, at least. No, it had to be. I was in another flat. I heard a loud crash on the floor above, and I walked out into the hallway here and looked out through the front door. I saw a man hurrying away.”
“You haven’t told this to the police,” Livy asked.
“No. No police. They’re all communists now. I don’t trust them.”
Livy seriously doubted her claim but didn’t argue. She had to keep the maid talking.
“What did you see, then? What did he look like?”
“He was short, but strong. He had one of those mustaches like this,” she said, drawing down a finger on either side of her lips. “I could even smell his cigarettes after he left. That’s all I have to tell you.” She picked up her bucket and mop. “I have work to do.” Before Livy could say another word, Alis was down the hall.
“I thought you were getting us in the room.” Vance stood behind her now. Livy grabbed his arm and pulled him through the entrance and onto the street.
Vance shrugged her away and stopped. “Mind telling me what the hell happened back there?”
“I know who killed the talent agent,” she said, her eyes scanning the streets for a free taxi. “I don’t know why, but I think the Russians are killing the Mephisto agents.”
* * *
Vance hailed a cab that took them from the eighteenth to his flat on the Left Bank. Ever the southern gentleman, he explained that he would stay at the U.S. Embassy. The murder and the walk-in had put everyone there in a state of alert, so his presence wouldn’t be suspicious.
Vance’s one-room flat was downright utilitarian. A single bed, which had been made up at least, occupied one corner across from a small wooden desk pushed against the wall under the room’s sole window. A toilet about the size of a closet opened at the foot of the bed. Despite its size, the flat did boast a spectacular view of Notre-Dame and the Seine, made even more remarkable as the sun set over the centuries-old cathedral. The view calmed Livy. Her last memory of Paris had been death at the Gare du Nord and waiting in a dirty alley as Nathalie sobbed next to her.
Vance interrupted her contemplation. “If you need anything else—food, whatnot—you let me know. I can’t risk you out on the streets alone.”
“I can take care of myself, Tom.”
“I think you’ve made that abundantly clear.” His southern bonhomie suddenly had teeth. “But what you seem to miss is we are working together on this.”
“Never said we weren’t.”
“Okay, well, maybe you might want to remember that. You left me in the dark back there at the flat, so from now on I am keeping you close. I have plenty at stake in this little game of ours, too. Are we clear?”
Livy had sensed his tension on the drive to his flat. She took her bag from him and held his hand for a moment. Vance rubbed the back of his neck and sighed.
“I need to be up-front with you about something, I guess. Gray got a letter from my daddy about two weeks ago. My old man is—um—not without some pull back home. Says he’s been to his congressman, his senator. Even threatens to go to the president, or at least pull his money from Truman’s next campaign, if Gray doesn’t send me home.”
Livy looked up and wrinkled her brow.
“Wants me back to run his tobacco business when he retires. He took over for his daddy, and so he figures it’s my turn. Doesn’t matter to my old man that I’m working for the Central Intelligence Group. Or whatever the War Office is calling us this week. You see, the problem is, Gray’s holding that letter over my head. Right before I came to get you, he took his pipe out of his mouth—that’s how you can tell he’s about to pontificate—and said, ‘Thomas, go get me that list and I will burn this letter from your father.’ So, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me do the shopping,” Vance said, his old swagger returning, “and thanks for calling me Tom. Mr. Vance was making me feel old. No, the real risk is keeping you in Paris too long. We need to move quickly. I’ll see if I can’t get us in to see Jabot tonight.”
“I’ve been giving that some thought, actually—”
“Hold on, now. Like I told you, Gray has contacts with the prefect of police here. Jabot’s in a French cell, but he is under American jurisdiction. So, you just can’t walk past the guards, right into his cell, and expect to have a little chat.”
“Fortunately, that wasn’t my plan, luv. No, I’m going to need a U.S. Embassy credential—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Who exactly do you think I am?” Vance stood in the doorway of his flat, Livy’s travel case at his feet, and held his hands out in front of him.
“—a few things for my hair, a clipboard and steno pad, and possibly something in the way of an American military uniform. I’ll write down the size for you since you’ll probably muck it up. Or I could wear just a business sort of suit. And, I think, glasses. Something plain. After all, you did offer to do the shopping.” Livy placed one hand on his lapel and gave him the same look she used to give to Gestapo guards when she had to pass through a checkpoint. Tom Vance was considerably more charming than those blokes, though. “I have faith in you, Tom.”
“Well, that makes one of us.”
Livy gave him her very best pout. “We’re proper colleagues now.”
“And for that, you should be eternally grateful.”
And just like that, his hand was on her hip. She didn’t push it away.
“Oh, I am. And I think you are, too?” she said with a slight grin.
“Seems to me like you’re just trying to get me to do what you want.”
“It’s what we both want, isn’t it?” She became even more aware of the faint scent of lavender in his hair oil and the almost sea-green color on the outer edges of his eyes. She looked up and his face was closer. Vance’s eyes flickered down to her lips. Another kiss was inevitable. But this time it wasn’t on the street outside a hotel. They were in his flat. Alone. The sun setting over Notre-Dame. If this were a film, the score would crescendo right about now.
But that’s the pictures.
Livy knew that tension heightened desire, pulling two people closer to shield them from what might come. She’d felt that during the war. With Peter. The past—still her constant companion—had her its grip again and guarded her jealously. That’s why this felt so wrong.
For now.
She pushed slightly against his chest with both hands. He hesitated, the moment already diminished. Vance looked confused, scanning her face for an answer, but Livy had no words. Something held her back, and would keep holding her back until she put it to rest. No matter what she felt for this man, she had nothing for him tonight except the job at hand.
“As you said, we need to move quickly,” Livy said, turning away from Vance. “You might want to take notes.”
* * *
Three hours later Vance and Livy stood outside the Paris Police Prefecture. Most of the items on Livy’s list had proved easy to find, except the military uniform, so she’d settled for a dress suit. She’d opted for gray, which she felt might fit her character best. The credentials had proved impossible to acquire on short notice and would have required significant alteration. So Vance had told Livy to disguise herself as much as she could and they’d bluff their way in.
She’d
managed to make her rat’s nest of brown hair look a bit tidier. Small pieces of tape just under the edges of her hair pulled the skin around her eyes up enough to give them a slightly altered shape. Add cat-eye glasses to that, and Livy thought she could be Myrtle Dickinson’s sister.
“Can you sound like an American?” Vance had asked as they waited for the cab, his manner now cool and professional after whatever had almost happened between them last night.
“’Course. Awwwl I have to do is take every bit of life out of my voice and sound as flat as the prairie.” Livy smiled.
“Charming.” Vance shook his head. “Let me do the talking this time.”
Minutes later the cab pulled up to the station and Vance led them through the side entrance of the flat gray building. Livy remembered the last time she’d been there. Then she’d been a guest of the police after her face-to-face encounter with Diablo/Jabot. Now she returned in the guise of an American stenographer accompanied by the same man who had sprung her. She remembered the long, dark hallway and the scuffed brown floors that led to the holding cells. At the end of the corridor, a tall, lanky guard, wearing a kepi and a khaki uniform, did paperwork behind a desk. Livy didn’t recognize him from her earlier visit, but still she quickened her gait and tried that American “bounce” she’d noticed in Vance’s walk.
Vance plopped down his ID badge and told the guard they had more questions for Jabot.
The French guard barely looked at the credentials and pointed to a closed door behind them. Vance opened the door. Livy looked up. An American MP sat behind a small desk at the end of the hall. A soldier with a rifle over his shoulder stood at his flank.
The Yanks had taken charge of this particular prisoner. Livy knew she was now officially on their territory.
Vance stepped up to the desk and handed his ID to the MP, whose jaw looked like it had been chiseled from granite. He looked it over quickly and said, “We’ve been expecting you, Mr. Vance.” He looked up, his eyes roamed over Livy slowly. “She your secretary?”
