by Nan
Etienne tapped his driver on the shoulder. “This is it. We are going in. Proceed slowly. Very slowly. But remember one thing: under no circumstances are you to stop until we cross the rue Royale!”
The driver took a deep breath and nodded. Etienne raised one hand to prepare those behind him. He lowered it, pointing straight at the heart of the St.-Honoré. He brought the bullhorn to his lips. “Mesdames et Messieurs. Distinguished visitors. Bonjour. As you know, it is imperative you return to your hotels at once.”
The convoy, like a giant serpent, began pushing its way through the crowd. There were groans and angry cries as shoppers pushed closer together to make room for the hostile intruders. “We have provided free transportation and request your immediate cooperation. Merci beaucoup.”
Women began raising their fists in protest. Others swung at the trucks with their handbags. Etienne was terrified. He held the binoculars against his eyes, which, no one but he knew, were shut tight. He consoled himself over and over again with the standing order from Lichtenstein of sixty percent above retail for each hundred units. Daring to open his lids for a moment, he turned back and brought the walkie-talkie to his lips. “Truck Twelve to remain at Louis Feraud. Truck Eleven to remain at Castillo. Truck Ten at Helena Rubinstein.”
Just after he passed Courrèges. a woman called out to him from a doorway. “What are you doing to us? Are you trying to put us out of business?” Obviously the owner of a shop, she raised her hands to plead with him. “For God’s sake, let them spend in peace!”
“Je regrette, Madame,” Etienne called out. “But the President has said—”
“To hell with the President!” she shouted. “Does he pay my rent?”
Etienne picked up the bullhorn. “Attention all tourists. The Government of France, in order to save the lives of the captured Americans, requires your immediate cooperation. Please come out of the stores. We will take you back to your hotels. This is an official order. Please get into the trucks in an orderly manner.” They began throwing things at Etienne. A newspaper. Half a brioche.
Etienne put the binoculars in front of his eyes and closed them again. He turned on the walkie-talkie. “Truck Nine at Courrèges. Eight and Seven, get them at Saint Laurent. Six, get them all at Lancôme. Five, move every last one of them out of Laroche. Four, get Lapidus!”
The shoppers on the rue du Faubourg St.-Honoré had joined arms and formed a human chain diagonally across the street from Hermès to Givenchy. “Buy or Die!” they chanted. “Buy or Die!”
The Jeep came to a halt. Etienne stared down at the seething mob in front of him. They juggled packages, cameras and airline flight bags as they tried to hold their ground. The trucks in the rear could not get through to deliver their precious cargo. But ahead was the rue Royale, where there would be reinforcements. He had no choice. Survival meant that somehow he had to make it past Hermès, Carita, Jourdan and the stronghold at Givenchy. Etienne signaled the driver to keep honking. He picked up the bullhorn, and as though he were the first Frenchman to recite the words to “La Marseillaise,” he sang out, “Marchons, marchons! Qu’un sang impur Abreuve nos sillons!”
The crowd began to melt. Assaulted by the honking of horns, the cries from Etienne and the fear that the trucks would run them over, they broke ranks and retreated. Cursing and weeping, they were loaded into the trucks. Etienne was still screaming “Marchons! marchons!” He kept his eyes shut until they reached the rue Royale.
The soldiers in the trucks behind him cheered. Etienne smiled and waved his hand. “We have broken through,” he shouted happily. “But our mission is not yet over!”
“Vive la France!” Commandant Giffard called out.
“Vive la France!” everyone cheered.
Etienne pointed down the block. They proceeded slowly to the line in front of Lalique. “All tourists must leave immediately,” he yelled into the bullhorn. “Foreigners are under orders to leave the premises now!” The women in line surrendered meekly and filed into the truck. But no one came out of the shop. “This is an emergency,” he shouted. “All aliens must leave at once!”
A woman opened the door and stuck her head out. “You want me?” she screamed. “You’re gonna have to come in and get me!” She slammed the door. The women in the truck applauded.
There was no choice. Etienne got out of the Jeep. Giffard ran to join him, but Etienne had decided to take Lalique on his own. As a precautionary measure, Giffard posted two men on either side of the entrance. Etienne heard them cock their rifles as he opened the door.
Women were rummaging through the stock, pushing their way behind display counters and grabbing for goblets in the window. The noise level was deafening. Etienne reached for the bullhorn. “This store is now off limits to all aliens!” Something was wrong with the amplification. Although a few frightened shoppers left, others continued reaching for frosted-glass figurines, vases and ashtrays. Etienne kept flipping the switch as he shouted into the bullhorn. At the first sound of his voice, the electric megaphone shut off. Then, as he shook it angrily, it suddenly burst into an earsplitting squeal. Within seconds, the mirrors, the glass shelves, the crystal decanters, the cut-glass vases and the elegant goblets all shattered.
Everyone froze. The entire cristallerie had been reduced to rubble. Etienne was stunned. Propelled by fear, he marched to the doorway, crushing glass underfoot with every step. “Into the trucks!” he shouted. They followed behind him meekly. There was nothing left to buy.
As though in a daze, Etienne kept walking toward the rue de Rivoli. The Jeep kept pace with him. His heart was pounding and his hands were shaking. He needed something to drink. Fortunately, he was in front of Maxim’s.
“Bonjour, Monsieur,” the doorman said warily.
Etienne looked back onto the street and beckoned for Giffard, suddenly aware that without the Commandant his only form of identification was a credit card.
“Monsieur,” the maître said. “Commandant. May I help you?”
“I must have a glass of Perrier,” Etienne demanded, “and I must know how many tourists you have in here today.”
The maître stiffened. “Mon Dieu! It is you! I am not afraid of you. This is not the St.-Honoré. This is Maxim’s!”
Etienne narrowed his eyes. “The President has ordered—”
“I know precisely what the President has ordered! You may tell the President I have just filled the dining room and I shall not send them out hungry!”
“When will they be through?”
The maître sighed. “Well, by the time they ask what every dish is and how it is made, and by the time they make certain not to order the cheapest wine on the list, it will be at least two hours.”
“That will be too late,” Etienne warned.
“Monsieur, that is precisely how it will be. At least, as long as there is a breath left in my body. They will eat, then they will have their coffee, then they will have their little cookies and their candy. Then I will send them home to their hotels. Then you can chop them up for all I care. But you will do nothing to disturb their meal!”
Etienne took his Perrier from the waiter. “You have two hours. We will have a truck here to take them.”
As Etienne and Giffard turned to leave, the maître was muttering, “It is not so much to ask. Two hours for The Last Lunch.”
Once back on the street, Etienne turned to Giffard. “I have decided to give you full command here. The St.-Honoré is yours!”
“But I don’t understand.”
“You are to go back. Back to St. Laurent. Back to Courrèges, Castillo, Feraud. You must get them all. Commandant, you cannot stop until every last one of them is out of Harriet Hubbard Ayer!”
“But you have been our leader. Where are you going?”
“I will need the Jeep and two trucks.” He lowered his eyes as he added, “Also your bravest men.”
“Monsieur le Secrétaire, where are you going?”
“To the heart, Commandant. I must cross the
Champs-Elysées!”
There was a sharp intake of breath from Giffard. “Mon Dieu!”
The Jeep, followed by a truck with the Commandant’s best men, made a right turn and drove along the rue de Rivoli. Etienne stood up, leaning against the windshield as the fresh air blew in his face. His eyes were now wide open.
The glorious Place de la Concorde. The very spot on which Marie Antoinette had been beheaded. Perhaps exactly where the obelisk stood. He picked up his binoculars to focus on it. Suddenly he yelled, “To the obelisk!”
The Jeep screeched to a stop. The soldiers in the truck were thrown off balance as they came to a halt. There, sitting inside the railing, with his back against the obelisk, was Murphy. He had taken off his jacket and tie. In one hand he held a bottle of Lafite-Rothschild ’45. There was a straw in it. At the sight of Etienne, he held up the bottle in a mock toast and took a sip through the straw.
Although they stood less than ten feet apart, Etienne picked up the bullhorn and adjusted it for maximum volume. “Are you a citizen of France?” he blasted.
“No.”
“For what purpose are you in this country?” His voice reverberated across the open square.
Murphy smiled ironically. “Looks like I’m here just for the fun of it, Frenchie!”
Etienne put down the bullhorn. A thin smile parted his lips as he motioned to his men. “Take him away!”
“What the hell are you doing? Let go of me!” Murphy screamed as he was lifted over the railing and into the truck.
Etienne was breathing hard. His fists clutched the rim of the windshield. The Arc de Triomphe was directly ahead. He raised his arm, pointing a very steady finger to the left of the Champs. For all the world to hear, Etienne shouted, “To Vuitton!”
THE huge bear of a man had promised escape. Instead they sat around a table, locked behind bars, staring at place cards.
“They’re grave markers.”
Dwight reached across the table and took Lily’s hand. “Who said that?” he asked, looking into her eyes. “It couldn’t have been my Lily. No.” He patted her hand. “It must have been someone else.”
She held tightly to him and began to cry. Clifford took out his handkerchief. Lily was surprised by his act of compassion. She took it, blew her nose and sighed. “I suppose it can’t matter anymore about catching fleas.” Clifford sat back in disbelief. “You’re right, Clifford,” she said quickly. “That was uncalled for.” Lily put a hand to her brow. “Good God, it must really be the end if Lily Simon is apologizing to Clifford Benjamin.”
“It is not the end.” Emma stood up.
“Then of course I take it back.”
“I believe Claude sent him to save us.” Emma searched for an explanation. “Why would he use Claude’s name if it weren’t true?” She walked to the bars and pushed against them. “Why else would he do that?” The bars didn’t yield. “He came to save us.”
“Sure he came to save us,” Clifford said sarcastically.
Dwight smiled. “How long do you think he intends to save us for?”
Clifford shrugged. “Dunno. A year. Maybe five. Hasn’t it occurred to anyone that in order for Claude to send him for us, Claude would have had to know where we were?”
“And he couldn’t possibly have known where we were,” Dwight said with great finality. “That is, unless he knew where we were.”
“You would have us believe, then, Inspector,” Lily said, “that the concierge did it?”
“Guilty as charged!”
“He couldn’t have!” Emma paced along the bars.
“Of course he could have,” Clifford said. “He knew where we were going. He knew he’d get a good price from NAA.”
“What I still don’t understand,” Dwight said, “is why he had us moved into the caves.”
Emma spoke with great authority, as though her tone could ensure the truth of what she wanted to believe. “He had us moved here to protect us from the others. Claude could never go through with something like this.”
“How do you know?” Clifford asked. “The guy fixes your shoes and he suddenly becomes your patron saint?”
Lily walked over to Emma. “Just what makes you so damn certain?”
Emma was grasping at straws. She pointed to the place cards. “These! These are so like him. So very formal. So very elegant. So French.”
“Darling, I’m afraid that kind of evidence won’t stand up in this kangaroo court.”
Emma turned angrily to Lily. “What will it take to make you believe these are his? Do you want to see receipts?”
Lily, who was rarely shocked, was shocked. She stared unbelievingly at Emma and chose her words carefully. “I suppose you envision him sitting at an ebony writing table.” She dared Emma to respond.
Emma’s eyes locked with Lily’s. She took a deep breath. “Yes. Directly under a Saint-Louis chandelier.”
Dwight fingered his place card. “He might have reserved a better table.”
“What are you up to?” Emma asked.
Lily turned away. “Nothing, darling. I fear I’m not nearly up to it.” Lily walked to the bars. She held on with both hands and began to laugh.
Emma leaned back in her chair. Claude must have been planning to kidnap her while they were making love. Claude must have been planning to sleep with Lily while they were making love. But worst of all, perhaps he’d slept with Lily before they made love. Perhaps she was merely part of some bizarre plan.
Lily held tight to the bars. How undermining to have her memory of Claude stolen! Having to seduce him was humiliating enough, but sharing him with Emma was devastating. Damn Emma! Damn Claude! She needed that memory. It had been so comforting. Not just the act of it, but the fact of it. She smiled. Yet if Claude had planned to kidnap her, wasn’t it possible he had planned also to seduce her? It wasn’t much, she thought with a sigh. But at least it was something to cling to.
“As usual, you have it all wrong, Emma darling.” Lily stalked around the table. “The grown-ups seem to agree it was Claude who done it. And who done it very carefully indeed. After all, he’s an acknowledged master of such things. Obviously, the plan was already operative on Monday when we checked in. And,” she said with a bitter smile, “As push came to shove, his plan reached its climaxes on Tuesday.” She glared at Emma. “So you see, Gretel, everything he did was on the agenda. Planned in advance! Down to the minute!”
Emma stared down at her watch. She suddenly understood why they let her keep it.
“There are only two possibilities,” Lily said. “Claude, who has been saving up for a tip the way Elizabeth saved up her virginity, decided to double-cross his gang for a larger cut . . .”
“Now, that I could believe,” Clifford said.
“Or,” she continued, “someone in the gang is double-crossing Claude.”
“Which also makes sense,” Dwight said.
“You’re all wrong!” Emma shouted. “He couldn’t go through with it! He changed his mind.” She realized Claude had told them to let her keep the watch. It was a message from him. He had found a way to be honest with her. “Any minute now, that door is going to open . . .” There was a noise. They all turned as one.
The door opened. Petit Meurice carried a bucket filled with ice. “Good afternoon,” he said.
The four of them rushed to the bars like puppies in the pound. “Where’s Claude?” Emma asked.
“When do we get out of here?”
“Where were you?”
“What the hell is going on?”
Petit Meurice put the bucket down on the ledge. He turned to face them and smiled. “I made an excuse to see young Monsieur Pommel. I did not want him to suspect I was not working.”
“Where is Claude?”
“It is not as it was with his father. But then, MGM is not the same without Louis B. Mayer either.”
“Why are we being kept here?”
“It is time for some refreshment.” He opened one of the cabinets.
/> “For God’s sake,” Emma screamed, “where is Claude?”
Petit Meurice winced. “I promise you, Madame, he is, by now, on his way.”
“How soon will he—”
“But that is the last question I will answer. I have been waiting for you such a long time. There is so much I want to tell you.”
“Oh, God,” Lily muttered. She sat down at the table. The others, realizing they were powerless, began taking their seats.
Petit Meurice took out five trays of fluted champagne glasses. They watched with disbelief as he began lining up five dozen glasses and fourteen bottles of champagne.
“Perhaps he’s with the Red Cross,” Lily whispered.
“Not that young Monsieur Pommel does not have my complete loyalty. There is nothing I would not do for him. After having served Madame Pommel and her husband before her, there is nothing I would not do for the family. But the bottles can wait for one day.” He smiled. “Do you know what I think about while I am turning my bottles?” He raised his hands and mimed the turning motion. “I think, This bottle will be for a birthday, and these are for a wedding. And these. And these. A very important wedding. At night. So many handsome people. An orchestra. Dancing. Pretty Japanese lanterns swinging in the breeze. What a good time they are all having! And this one is for a new baby, and this for a holiday, and this for a new house, and this for lovers on the beach. For a king. For an Academy Award!” He put his hands down and paused a moment. “It is such a wonderful job. I have such happy thoughts. Every bottle is a celebration. Every bottle brings happiness. I meet such lovely people.” He glanced at the wall behind him. “Most of the time. Ja wohl, meinen Herren?” he shouted.
Lily grasped Dwight’s hand. “My God, who is he talking to?” she whispered.
“I don’t know.”
“I am talking to the leaders of the other occupation.” Petit Meurice raised his hand and pointed to the wall. “You must allow me to present Gruppenführer Rastenberg.” He moved his hand along the wall. “Oberleutnant Koenig, and Unteroffizier Shtell.”
The four of them looked at one another in horror. Why was he pointing to a blank wall?
