Well, she probably could. Flicking the lighter again, she inspected the sizing band inside the hat. Tiny stitches slanted left to right – put in by a right-handed person. Violaine.
But the stitching inside a second hat sloped in the opposite direction. With Violaine’s encouragement, Coralie had reversed a lifetime of indoctrination, and now sewed with her left hand. To prove these hats were hers, Henriette Junot would have to produce a left-handed milliner prepared to commit perjury.
But it wouldn’t get to court. She intended to take what was hers, now.
She’d start in the stockroom.
That room lay behind the main salon and Coralie had a key, though in fact, she found the door ajar and a light on. Inside, a girl in a raincoat stood halfway up a stepladder. An elderly man held the ladder, which wobbled as he saw Coralie.
Not wanting confrontation, Coralie opened her mouth to justify her presence, when she realised she knew the girl. ‘Amélie!’
‘Oh, heavens!’ Amélie Ginsler, Henriette’s head vendeuse, stepped down. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Fishing. What are you doing?’
Amélie looked guiltily towards the old man, who asked in a whisper, ‘Who is this?’
‘A friend,’ Amélie told him, ‘a good friend.’ Then to Coralie, ‘This is my grandfather. He’s helping me.’
‘Do what, though?’
‘Steal.’ Words poured out. ‘Henriette means to sack me. I overheard her. She wanted to turn me out right away because I’d been asking too many questions about the new stock, but Lorienne said I should be kept on another week because Rosaire is not quite ready to take over my job.’
‘Rosaire?’
‘Henriette’s – ’Amélie shot a glance at her grandfather ‘– newest friend. She started here a few weeks ago, and she’s replaced me.’
So, Henriette had brought in yet more ‘favourites’ to bolster her authority. Coralie felt sorry for Amélie, but there was no time to chat. ‘Where’s this new stock?’
‘Upstairs. I’ll show you. I’m collecting my things and Grandpapa’s taking them home.’ Amélie was cradling something against her chest. Hats made of satin. Not real ones, doll-sized miniatures.
‘May I?’ Coralie examined one. It was perfect, its flowers and curled ostrich feather to scale. The second was just as exquisite. ‘Did you make these?’
‘Grandpapa did.’ Pride ran through Amélie’s voice. ‘He carved the blocks, and blocked the felt, and Grandmama trimmed them. They had a business in Vienna once, making antique dolls, and were quite famous. They tried to carry on here, but it’s hard to start afresh with nothing in the bank. We have a shop in the Marais, on rue Charlot. Bring your little girl some time. Grandpapa used to sell to the best stores in Vienna and Berlin . . .’ She tailed off and Coralie filled in the rest. Of course. Amélie was Jewish. She’d always presumed ‘Ginsler’ was of German origin, and so it was. German Jewish.
‘Did you show these to Henriette?’ she asked.
‘That’s why they’re here,’ Amélie answered. ‘A few years ago, we had a special children’s collection. It was my idea, a way to ensure another generation of customers. Our clients brought their little girls along and other little girls modelled hats. I persuaded Grandpapa to lend some dolls, so he might pick up some customers. At the last minute, Henriette demanded commission on any that he sold, and after the show, she made me give her these little hats because she recognised the trimmings. They were offcuts from the atelier floor. We throw away bags of trim every week! But because they’d been turned into something beautiful . . .’
Amélie left the rest unsaid. She took a tape measure from her pocket and a delicate pair of scissors. ‘And I have my contact book too, with my customers’ names and telephone numbers. After I’m sacked, I shall call them and offer to re-trim their hats. Even rich women can no longer throw away last season’s wear.’
The old man presented a fob watch. ‘We must go. Already, it is nearly seven.’
‘Will Henriette pay the commission she owes you?’ Coralie asked.
Amélie gave a dispirited laugh. ‘My sales have been put down to Rosaire’s account, so, no.’
Rosaire. Number three in the La Passerinette raiding party? Coralie asked how Lorienne was getting on with the other staff.
‘She’s been appointed première. She took over from Madame Zénon, who returned to her family in Marseille – though only after Henriette pressured her to resign.’ Lorienne was hated by the sales staff and midinettes alike, Amélie confided. ‘She blames them for her own mistakes. A monster, except with Henriette, whom she flatters and coddles. The only time I’ve heard them arguing was after the disaster of the April collection.’
‘Oh?’ The night she’d walked out – been sacked, depending on whose point of view you took – Coralie had wagered Henriette that she’d produce the better spring collection. With invasion looming, the bet had fizzled out. ‘What disaster?’
Amélie addressed her grandfather first. ‘Go home, Opa. Take my things and I’ll see you tonight. I must show Coralie something.’
‘Prepare to marvel.’ In one of the upstairs ateliers, Amélie opened a vast cupboard, revealing shelves filled with hats. ‘The April line.’
‘Good heavens!’
Amélie chuckled. ‘We all told Lorienne she was mad, that the timing was all wrong for such colours, but Henriette loved them. “People will say we are taking up the patriotic baton. Vive la France.” And within ten minutes, it had been Henriette’s idea all along.’
Coralie had never seen such a frenzy of red, white and blue. The hats exploded with tricolor cockades, feathers and flowers, enough to bring on a flashing headache. ‘They didn’t launch? I never saw them.’
‘No, because suddenly everyone was saying that the drôle de guerre was over. Henriette panicked. Unlike most people, she’d always believed there would be an invasion. People she’d met in Italy had a more realistic view of the German Army than we French ever did. Suddenly she had visions of her customers running from the advancing tanks with her designs on their heads. She cancelled the show and ordered Lorienne to start again.’
Only Lorienne had faltered, inspiration used up. With time running out, she’d persuaded Henriette to join her in a desperate eleventh-hour solution. ‘Coralie, I didn’t know she’d stolen your stock until I found La Passerinette labels on the floor. Lorienne said you’d sold them to her. She said you were—’
‘Leaving town? Perhaps she hoped I would.’
‘Henriette took over deconstructing your hats, making them up slightly differently to put her mark on them.’
‘You can’t do that.’ Coralie was outraged. ‘The shapes won’t balance.’
Amélie laughed. ‘Balance is the least of Henriette’s worries. She’s brought new people into her business – Rosaire, Soufflard, Lorienne – and, in their way, they rule her. Sometimes I see Henriette looking exhausted. Well, after today, it won’t be my concern.’
They found the bulk of the stolen La Passerinette hats in Henriette’s attic workroom: the straw, the sisal, the chintzes and organdies. Amélie fetched a bundle of laundry bags and helped Coralie fill them. They clumped down the stairs, laden like pack mules.
‘All my blocks were taken,’ she told Amélie. ‘Tools, everything.’
‘We could check the cellar.’
A search revealed nothing but cartons of felt waste, waiting to be traded on to a company that stuffed mattresses. Amélie said, ‘I’d say your equipment was sold within hours. I doubt Henriette has black-marketeers in her address book, but I’d bet my last franc that Lorienne knows a few.’
But Coralie was looking at the bags of felt, an idea forming. Felt offcuts, miniature blocks to shape them on. ‘Amélie, does your grandfather accept commissions?’ But Amélie was anxious to leave. ‘You go,’ Coralie said. ‘I’ve one more thing to do.’
It took several trips up- and downstairs, and she was breathless and hot by the time she’d tran
sformed Henriette Junot’s window into a tableau guaranteed to stop passers-by in their tracks.
Out on the street, she flagged down a delivery truck, offering the driver all the money she had on her to take her and her bulging laundry bags the short distance to boulevard de la Madeleine. She and Violaine would have to re-sew all the labels, and she still had to re-acquire the tools of her trade, but she had won a victory. An immoral one, perhaps, but what did she care about that?
CHAPTER 21
Friday again, 12 July. Her forger had broken his promise over Ottilia’s papers. Coralie had been back twice to rue Valdonne. Bonnet had not answered her agitated knocking, though on her second visit, his face had appeared briefly at the window. Well, she’d go back again. And again, until he produced.
They were taking late-morning tea at home – she, Una and Ottilia – when three solid raps at the street door froze them mid-conversation. Coralie felt the crash in the stomach that was becoming unpleasantly familiar. It might be Henriette, ranting about hats. It might be the French police, interested in her visits to a forger. It might be German officials, a black car drawn up at the kerb. Her hands turned clammy as she went down and drew back the bolts.
Ramon was inside almost before she had time to gasp, ‘You!’
She noticed immediately that he’d lost weight. His face was hatched with fading scratches. But his clothes were clean and somebody had ironed his shirt. She even got a hint of a woman’s scent. Before she could turn on him, however, he blared, ‘What the devil are you up to?’
‘Talking to Bonnet? Lucky I did, or I might never have known you were back.’
‘Bonnet?’ Ramon stared. Then, ‘You’ve been to rue Valdonne? Coralie, how dare you? Only I deal with Bonnet.’
‘Had you told me you were in Paris, I’d have asked you. ¬Ottilia’s in danger. We’re shipping her out.’
Was that a flicker of shame? ‘I was going to call. I’ve been busy.’
‘So I heard.’
‘Don’t you dare put me in the wrong.’ He jabbed a finger. ‘After what you did to my sister!’
‘To Henriette? Hang on. Not only did she rob me, she nearly murdered my assistant. Go and poke your finger at her.’
‘I know what she did, and there’s no excuse, but to get her arrested? Coralie – such revenge is beneath you.’
‘Arrested? I don’t rat, not even on Henriette.’
‘You didn’t need to. You made a prime show on rue Royale. Those hats, red, white and blue, covered in revolutionary cockades?’
‘My window display? A little lacking in finesse,’ she rammed her hands on her hips, ‘but I made my point.’
‘Oh, you made a point. Henriette and Lorienne Royer were arrested the same morning for subversion. Yes, subversion! It is illegal to display the French colours. Do you see any tricolores in Paris now? They were taken to the Santé prison. Lorienne’s out, but Henriette is still there.’
‘I didn’t mean that to happen!’
‘But it has. You barge ahead, like a lunatic firing bullets in a crowd. It was the same at the Rose Noire, when you dragged us all into a fight, and Arkady and the other boys were nearly beaten up. All so you could be the centre of attention, prancing about in a gold hat. You’re dangerously irresponsible.’
‘How about you? I thought you were dead, or a prisoner of war.’
His reply was an ironic snort. ‘I hardly fired a bullet. I ended up behind the lines, ferrying wounded men to field hospitals.’
‘And now you’re skulking in a back-street with somebody else’s woman.’
He flushed hard. ‘What makes you think she’s somebody else’s?’
‘Because they always are. I was the honourable exception. I don’t suppose you’re working, either.’
‘I can’t because the German military police are looking for me. I got caught just before the surrender, made a prisoner of war, only I escaped. Me and some other lads jumped out the back of a lorry and ran for it. I pick up jobs here and there now, so don’t ask me for money.’
‘When was the last time I did that?’
Noëlle must have heard them, because she suddenly wailed, ‘Papa, Papa!’ from the top of the stairs.
Coralie turned to go up, but Ramon stopped her. ‘Once upon a time, Raphael Bonnet lived in Montmartre, but one day he got so drunk he rolled down the slope all the way to Montparnasse.’
‘Save the fairy stories for Noëlle.’
‘It’s not a fairy story. If the Gestapo ever get on to him, he will talk. You’ve heard of the Gestapo? Geheime Staatspolizei, secret state police. Nice fellows who wear black uniforms or, more usually, grey. Sometimes they lurk in plain suits, trying to look like the rest of us.’
‘What’s your point?’
‘Bonnet knew my name and address and now he knows yours. If he is taken in for questioning, if they torture him, he will betray you.’
So, she had blundered, but she wasn’t going to give Ramon the satisfaction of seeing her dismay. ‘Bonnet doesn’t have this address. I go to him.’ She did feel bad about Henriette, though. ‘Shall I pack a basket of food to take to your sister?’
Ramon rolled his eyes. ‘She has a girlfriend for that. Look, I’ll go to Bonnet’s now, chase up your papers. Men like him need men like me to kick their arses. It’s not women’s work.’
Two hours later, Ottilia was staring indignantly at her new identity. ‘That photograph is awful. I look sulky and fat.’ It had been prised off Ottilia’s London Library card. Coralie had been appalled to discover that Ottilia had brought it to France, along with two further proofs of her identity: her passport and a British alien’s identity card. This last, a fawn-coloured booklet, revealed every detail of her birth and her former residence in Berlin. Coralie had lit a fire in the grate and put the documents into the flames, ignoring Ottilia’s pleas that she couldn’t legally re-enter Britain without them. ‘Better detained in England than deported to Germany.’
Now she looked over Ottilia’s shoulder to assess Bonnet’s work. The identity card looked convincing, to the point of being creased and a little greasy at the corners, as if it had been inspected scores of times already. ‘Guard it with your life, Tilly, and learn every line of it. Most of the details are true, but not all. See? It says you live in rue de Madrid.’
‘But that’s an awful street. Once I had a charwoman who lived near there.’
‘The point is, it’s easy to remember because you’re making for Madrid.’
‘I thought I was going to Vichy.’
‘You are at first—’ Coralie stopped, catching Ramon’s eye. He considered their plan for Ottilia’s escape to be amateur. Such things were men’s work, no doubt. ‘Una will explain better than me,’ she said. ‘She’ll be back from her hospital shift in time for supper.’
‘Why does it say that I am a florist?’
‘Your cover story is that you are a single woman, with no parents, going to live with an aunt in Perpignan. Women in such circumstances usually have to work, so we chose a profession you could talk about, if you’re questioned. You must have bought enough flowers in your life!’
‘That doesn’t mean I know about them. I order them and another woman brings them and arranges them. Why should I do it myself?’
Ramon interrupted, asking if Coralie had beer in the flat? He’d run to rue Valdonne for the papers and back again, and it was hot out there.
‘We can manage weak tea,’ she said. ‘Did Bonnet give you anything else?’
‘A bill.’ Ramon handed her a square of grimy paper with figures scrawled on it. ‘And this.’
‘This’ was a flimsy pink rectangle, their counterfeit Ausweis, authorising four male musicians and Ottilie Dupont to cross the demarcation line into the Free Zone. It was stamped with the German eagle and today’s date. As Bonnet had forewarned, it required an authorising signature.
‘For which you will have to jump through hoops,’ Ramon told her.
‘We’ll queue at the Kommandantu
r, no hoops required. I’ll make your tea.’
He shadowed her to the kitchen, and while they waited for the water to boil, she took him through the escape plan in detail.
‘It’s simple,’ she insisted. ‘The Vagabonds will play a double set at the Rose Noire tomorrow night. Soon as curfew’s lifted, they’ll set off for Vichy, taking Ottilia with them.’
‘Picking her up here?’
‘We’re all going to the club. She’ll leave with them.’
‘Then what?’
‘Remember that champagne we drank at Christmas? That came from a friend of Una’s. He’s now an adviser to the new government in the south, in Vichy. He’s pulled strings to get the Vagabonds a week’s residence in a club near the Hôtel du Parc. That’s where all the top-rank ministers are staying. It turns out Vichy’s a bit thin on fun.’
Una had put it slightly differently. ‘The ministers, their wives and mistresses are at each other’s throats with boredom. Any table-scraps of Parisian culture are welcome.’
‘And how do they travel?’ Ramon demanded. ‘Train?’
Coralie measured tea leaves into the pot. ‘By car, courtesy of Serge Martel.’
‘You are kidding.’
‘Nope.’ Back in charge of his club, eager to curry favour with the new, collaborationist government, Serge Martel had not only agreed to release the Vagabonds from their contract for a week but also to loan his famous wine-red Peugeot for the journey. Una had called on him a few days ago, just to make sure. She’d worn her tightest outfit, undone the top buttons . . . Her attention to detail had worked. So far.
Still, Ramon seemed determined to find fault. ‘Ottilia will have to hide for a week in a town full of government spies, German agents and security men.’
‘It’s still safer than Paris and she’ll have Arkady to take care of her.’
‘And when the week is up?’
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