by Nan
Books by Nan and Ivan Lyons
SOMEONE IS KILLING THE GREAT CHEFS OF EUROPE
CHAMPAGNE BLUES
Champagne
Blues
Nan & Ivan Lyons
Copyright © 1979 by Nan Lyons and Ivan Lyons
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or part in any form. For information, address Charlotte Sheedy Literary Agency, 928 Broadway, Suite 901, New York, NY 10010.
The authors gratefully acknowledge permission from the following music publishers to quote song lyrics:
“Begin the Beguine” by Cole Porter. Copyright © 1935 Warner Brothers, Inc. Copyright renewed. All Rights Reserved. Used by permission.
“Bye Bye Blackbird,” Lyrics, Mort Dixon/Music, Ray Henderson. Copyright © 1926 Warner Brothers, Inc. Copyright renewed. All Rights Reserved. Used by permission.
“Lady, Be Good” by George and Ira Gershwin. Copyright © 1924 New World Music Corp. Copyright renewed. All Rights Reserved. Used by permission.
“Over the Rainbow,” Lyric, E. Y. Harburg/Music, Harold Arlen. Copyright 1938, renewed 1965, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, Inc.; 1939, renewed 1966, Leo Feist Inc., New York, N.Y. Rights throughout the world controlled by Leo Feist Inc. Used by permission.
“The Last Time I Saw Paris,” Words by Oscar Hammerstein II/Music by Jerome Kern. Copyright © 1940, T. B. Harms Company. Copyright renewed. Used by permission.
“They Can’t Take That Away from Me” by George & Ira Gershwin. Copyright © 1936 & 1937 by George Gershwin. Copyright renewed, assigned to Chappell & Co., Inc. International copyright secured. All Rights Reserved. Used by permission.
“Where or When,” Rodgers & Hart. Copyright © 1937 by Chappell & Co., Inc. Copyright renewed. International copyright secured. All Rights Reserved. Used by permission.
ebook ISBN 978-0-7867-5551-6
print ISBN 978-0-7867-5550-9
Distributed by Argo Navis Author Services
To Nat and Diane—
for the shirts off their backs
Contents
Monday
Tuesday
Wednesday
Thursday
Friday
Monday
ON the second floor of the most fabled hotel in all of Paris, Claude Picard, the most fabled concierge in all of Paris, lay awake in his darkened room. Clutched in his hand was a small replica of the Eiffel Tower.
He pulled the blue silk coverlet from his bare body and walked across the room. As he drew back the draperies, the shadows brightened into blue brocade. Blue satin. Blue velvet. The morning sunlight ignited the crystal pendants on the Saint-Louis chandelier as though a flame had been put to them. Still holding tightly to the tarnished metal souvenir, he stared out the window at the original.
Claude had an aquiline nose, prominent lips and olive complexion. His thick black hair fell into a well-mannered wave at the side of his forehead. Although in his fifties, he maintained the proud, muscular build of a young combatant. His torso was hairless. A perfectly bordered dense shrub of pubic hair gave his body an elegant sexuality.
Brring. Brring. He turned from the window to answer the telephone. “Oui?”
“They have refused the car,” the woman whispered. “They would not even let the porter take their bags. They are waiting for the bus.” There was a pause. “Emma Benjamin is very beautiful.”
“She is also very deadly.”
“It is almost like the old days, Le Dom.”
Claude smiled. “It was easier then. We had only the Wehrmacht to worry about.”
“I will not let them out of my sight. Vive la France!”
“Vive la France!” As Claude hung up the receiver, the foyer door opened.
Jean-Paul walked into the bedroom. He had long since overcome his embarrassment at seeing Claude naked. “Bonjour, Le Dom.”
Claude nodded as he watched the valet hang a new uniform on his closet door. Jean-Paul walked across the Aubusson, around the lacquer harpsichord and over to the ebony writing table. He opened one of the Baccarat decanters, took a stemmed Clichy cordial glass and poured it three-quarters full of armagnac. He put the glass on the Meissonier silver tray.
“Le Directeur says we must all wear new uniforms today.”
Claude drank the armagnac in a single gulp. He winced, and deep lines formed at the corners of his bright blue eyes. “Not all,” he said.
“You are very tense, Le Dom. Your fist.”
Claude opened his palm. He was still clutching the Eiffel Tower. He stared at it for a moment, at the indentations the metal had made in his skin.
“There is a better one outside the window,” Jean-Paul said.
“No.” Claude smiled. “That one is just for the tourists. Mine is the real one.”
Jean-Paul smoothed the bed for Claude’s morning massage. The armagnac, the massage and a hot bath usually eased the stiffness in his scarred knee. “Le Dom?”
Brring. Brring. “Not today,” Claude said, reaching for the phone. “Fill the tub.” Brring. Brring. He waited until Jean-Paul left the room. “Oui?”
“The Simons have arrived at Orly!” the man reported.
“Now they are all on French soil.”
“Mon Dieu!” he said breathlessly. “They are drinking champagne as they walk through Immigration!”
“If we let them, they will drink France dry.”
“Then we will not let them!”
“Vive la France!”
“Vive la France!”
The bathroom was pale green marble. Jean-Paul was filling the tub. “Le Directeur has been screaming at everyone. The Simons must have this! The Benjamins must have that!”
“Turn off the water,” Claude said, eager to change the subject. “Fix the tray, please.”
Jean-Paul arranged the tub tray. On it were a telephone, a gold cigarette case from Le Général, a Zippo lighter inscribed “Patton’s Third, 28 August 1944” and a Lalique ashtray.
Claude poured half a bottle of Pernod into the bathwater. He put one foot into the tub and swirled it around. He inhaled the licorice scent as he lowered himself into the steaming apéritif.
“Is there anything else, Le Dom?”
“Yes. Return the new uniform to le Directeur.”
“But—”
“Merci, Jean-Paul.”
The boy shook his head and closed the door as he left.
Claude leaned back and slid down until the water covered his chest. He winced. Almost involuntarily, his hand went to the small crater in his knee. Every time he stretched or bent or walked stairs, it was there. A reminder from the past. A curse from a former lover. He thought of the night he lay bleeding in the vineyard at Epernay. Bleeding onto the vines. The noble grapes of Champagne. Had those branches mended from the weight of his leg? Did they ever ache for him?
There was an angry banging at the door. He knew who it was. “Entrez, Pierre.”
The door burst open and slammed against the marble wall. Pierre Durac, the plump, mustachioed director of the Hotel Louis Quinze, moaned as he ran across the room like a wounded animal. He flung up the seat on the toilet. He unzipped his pants and began urinating noisily. “On top of everything else, the President of Rumania will arrive tonight! He always stays in 402! But how can I give him 402? The Marchese is still in 402!”
“You should have known better, Pierre. The Marchese is only in the third day of his affair with the Swedish Ambassador’s wife. He is good for another week. What about the Princess?”
“Which one?” Pierre asked as he continued splashing into the bowl.
“The one without breasts.”
“The British one? No. She has not yet finished her wardrobe. She has another day or two of fittings. And the Shah
?”
Claude smiled. “He has not completed his shopping either. Unless he purchases Maxim’s, Galeries Lafayette or Notre Dame, he too will remain.”
“Then what am I to do?” Pierre exclaimed as he zipped his pants and turned around.
Claude smiled. “You are to flush.”
Pierre narrowed his eyes. He pressed the lever as though the surge of water would express his anger.
Claude offered him a cigarette. Pierre shook his head. “I cannot cope with the President of Rumania, and the Simons, and the Benjamins, and Marcel’s insolence.” He paused to reread the inscription on the lighter. “I have just fired Marcel.”
“So,” Claude said bitterly, “it has begun. The state of siege. And Marcel is the first to fall. The first casualty of the Simons and the Benjamins.”
Pierre slammed down the lid and sat on the toilet. “I have been rehearsing everyone since dawn. Marcel kept putting the Mandarin Orange on their tray instead of the Dark Seville! Not once,” Pierre said defensively. “But to mock me, he did it twice!”
“You are telling me that Marcel, who fought with us to save France, Marcel the brilliant strategist, was fired because of the marmalade?”
“His strategy this morning was far from brilliant. I put up with Marcel’s insults for too many years. I have too much at stake. The Simons can ruin me!”
“It appears they already have.”
Pierre began to yell. “He knew the Mandarin Orange was fit only for the Arabs, not for the Simons! There is nothing you can do. You may have helped save France, but you cannot save Marcel! I have a reputation to protect!”
Claude reached for the telephone. “And I have a Frenchman to protect!” He flashed the operator. “In Strasbourg. I want the Auberge du Cygne.” Claude held the receiver to his ear. He and Pierre glared at each other. “Bertrand, s’il vous plaît,” Claude said.
A moment later a soft voice said, “Bertrand.”
“Heil Hitler!” Claude shouted. “Wie gehts, Herr Bertrand?”
There was an audible gasp. “Le Dom?”
“Tell me, why is it you never keep in touch, Bertrand? Year after year the Führer’s birthday comes and goes but I never hear from you.”
Another pause. “That was thirty-five years ago,” Bertrand whispered.
“I recall it as though it were only yesterday.”
“What do you want of me?”
“I wish to collaborate with you for a change. I understand you are looking for a new maître.”
“I am not looking for a—”
“And I have just the person for you. Surely you remember Marcel? Marcel Oriole? He has a sister living in Strasbourg and would like to be near her.”
“You cannot do this to me. I am not afraid of you anymore.”
“Marcel’s number is 231.77.61. Someday perhaps you will do me a favor in return. Auf Wiedersehen.” Claude hung up the receiver.
“And so the legendary Le Dom has once again accomplished the impossible.”
“You fired an old friend, Pierre. Surely that is enough fun for one day. It is time you went back to work.”
“I allow you great latitude, Concierge, because of the past we share. But you cannot continue to resist the fact that this hotel is a business. The Louis Quinze, this fortress of French elegance, survives only because it makes a profit from people with full bladders, tired feet and dirty laundry.”
Claude smiled sardonically. “What they say, then, is true. You can take the boy out of the Hilton, but you cannot take the Hilton out of the boy.”
Pierre turned his back to Claude and leaned over the sink. There was a long pause and then he shouted, “I did not want to fire Marcel!”
“How ironic. You must tell that to Marcel.”
“No. It is ironic that le Directeur must confess to le Concierge.”
“If it is any consolation, I shall never forgive you.”
“I do not require your forgiveness! Or your permission!” Pierre turned to face him. “You are no longer the hero of Champagne. You are now ‘the very charming Claude Picard’,” he quoted sarcastically. “ ‘The man who can do the impossible. The greatest concierge in all of Paris’!”
“Enough, Pierre. I know exactly who I am.”
“The Simons have always been quite generous to you. An entire paragraph in every edition. Perhaps you are angry with them because they do not know who you were.” Without a word, Pierre opened the door. He paused before leaving. “Le Dom, it is not still the battle of Champagne.”
“You are wrong, Pierre. It is always the battle of Champagne!”
Pierre slammed the door. Claude lay back in the tub. He thought of Marcel and Pierre bicycling every night from Epernay to Mailly to count the Nazis who were grouping there. Marcel and Pierre were inseparable. Until the day Marcel forgot the Dark Seville.
Claude was startled as the door opened again. Marie-Thérèse was the ne plus ultra of executive chic. As housekeeper for the Louis Q, she had a staff of nearly one hundred and was equal in position to many top executives.
“Monsieur le Concierge,” she said urgently, “there is something I must tell you.” She locked the door. She dropped her papers and books.
“Oui?” he asked.
She knelt down on the floor and leaned over to him. “I must tell you that I love you!” They kissed.
“You don’t love me,” he said as she unbuttoned her skirt and took off her blouse. “You love Le Dom.”
She took off her brassiere and turned to Claude. “Have you seen him today?” she asked.
“He was here. Briefly.”
Marie-Thérèse sat on the edge of the tub to roll down her stockings. “I hope I have not missed him.”
Claude sat back and watched as she took off her panties. “He is never gone for long.” He smiled and stretched his arms up to her.
Marie-Thérèse slipped gently into the tub. Water splashed onto the floor as he put his arms around her. They kissed. She moaned softly as his tongue met hers. She felt him stiffen against her stomach. “There he is!” she whispered. Her hand slipped down toward his thigh, but instead of reaching for his penis, her fingers touched his knee. She caressed the scar. “If only I had been there with him!”
“It was not the best of times.”
She kissed him again. “It was not the worst of times.”
He smiled. “What would you have done in Epernay?”
“I would have lived in the caves with him.” She leaned forward. “After he came home from a hard day of resistance, I would open a bottle of champagne and pour his dinner.”
He lifted his head to kiss her breasts. “He never drank the champagne. It was all that was left of a free France.”
“So that is why he never drinks champagne.” She rubbed his nipples until they became hard.
“No.” Claude pointed to his right knee. “That is why he never drinks champagne.”
“If only I had been there,” she whispered.
He held her face in his hands. “They would have taken you away. They took everything that was beautiful.” He sat facing her and fondled her breasts. “They changed the names of streets. Children. Labels on little bottles of spices!” He reached between her legs. “They destroyed picture postcards. Harmless picture postcards of the Champs-Elysées.” First one finger inside, then a second. “Any memento of France. They searched everywhere. They even took little souvenirs of the Eiffel Tower.”
“Achtung!” she whispered excitedly. She squeezed his penis in her hand. “Achtung! La Tour Eiffel!”
“Der Eiffel Turm!”
Marie-Thérèse straddled his stomach. She guided him inside as she sat down slowly. “Tell me again!” she insisted, digging her fingers into his shoulders. “My darling, how many Nazis were at Mailly?”
“Every night Le Dom would send two men to bicycle from Epernay to Mailly.”
Marie-Thérèse squeezed her thighs against his. “You must tell me, dearest. How many Nazis were at Mailly?”
He closed his eyes. Her legs tightened around him. “Pierre and Marcel would count the number gathering for the battle in Normandy.”
She raised herself very slowly. “The Nazis, my love. How many?” He moaned as Marie-Thérèse lowered herself quickly. “How many were there?” She held on to the sides of the tub and began rocking furiously. “I have ways of making you talk!”
When he thought he could no longer stand it, he confessed. “Ten thousand!”
“Ten thousand,” she shouted, clutching her breasts. “Oh, darling. Yes! Ten thousand Nazis! Oh, my God!”
“The Allies bombed Mailly for eight hours.” He pressed his fingers into her thighs. “You could see the flames for miles.” Claude pushed the soles of his feet against the edge of the tub. He stiffened his entire body. “If only you had been there!” The pain in his right knee was nearly unbearable. He thrust upward as deeply as he could. “I can see the flames!” he cried out.
“The sky is red!” she gasped. “I can see the flames!”
Small waves of water continued spilling over the side of the tub. Finally they lay still. Almost smiling, he whispered, “It was not the worst of times.”
THE most important person in a hotel is the doorman, thought Gaspar the doorman. He is the first to be seen by the arriving guest. His bearing and manner set the tone for the entire staff. If only the people inside maintained the doorman’s high standards. God knows, there was little enough else for them to do!
Gaspar inspected his domain. He picked up a stray leaf from the sidewalk and stuffed it into his pocket. Everything was ready. The mats had been swept. The brass hardware had been polished. Every light bulb had been replaced. Not a single streak was to be found on the etched glass doors. Even his most unreliable assistant, God, had lit the scene properly. There was a 22-karat sun in the sky. The emerald green canopy, as well as the arched awnings on each window, stood crisp and fresh as though just plucked from a garden.
Gaspar felt his pulse quicken as the sable brown Bentley turned the corner. He slapped his thigh three times to alert the lobby personnel. The car slid to a smooth stop in front of the emerald green carpet. He opened the door.
