The Pursuit of Pearls

by Jane Thynne

  It was a silver pistol, less than five inches long, gleaming treacherously in her hand as if it belonged there. The handle was made of smooth burled wood, its silver inlay decorated with elaborate swirls of engraving. It looked as beautiful as an elegant, finely worked piece of jewelry. Simply the feel of it made her shudder. How strange that something so deadly should possess such glamour.

  “It’s a derringer. We call it a stocking gun.”

  “It’s tiny.”

  “It needs to be if you’re going to conceal it. But the size means it can only be deadly at short range. There’s no room for an automatic mechanism—that would only increase its weight—so you carry it loaded with the hammer at half cock. When you want to use it, you move the hammer back to full-cock position and pull the trigger. If you misfire, you can pull the hammer back and try again. But there’s only the chance for two shots. You can only make one mistake.”

  Clara traced her fingers over the whorled wood and the cool swirls of silver engraving, trying to imagine what had gone through the mind of the man who fashioned it.

  “That pistol has an illustrious history. It was a derringer that killed Abraham Lincoln.”

  “Not so illustrious then.”

  He laughed. “Here’s the holster. I suppose you don’t want me to show you how to attach it?”

  She examined the piece of silky calfskin attached to an elastic garter.

  “I think I can work it out. But, Herr Epstein…I don’t need a gun. I can’t imagine that I ever would.”

  The smile vanished from Epstein’s eyes. “Only an amateur is unprepared. Keep it with you at all times.”

  He watched as she buried it in her bag.

  “Our friend in London reminds you that time is pressing. He needs you to contact him within four weeks with whatever information you have obtained.”

  “Four weeks! That’s far too soon.”

  “On the contrary. Let’s hope it’s not too late.”

  Epstein went over and leaned out of the window, watching the people in the café across the street.

  “Look at them down there. Do they have any idea what’s coming towards them? I hear the Germans are planning to mass their tanks on the Polish border by the beginning of September. But Hitler won’t stop there. He will certainly look to the west. France has no chance against a rearmed Germany.”

  He lit another Gitanes and blew the smoke into the wind. “Have they any idea of the cruelty, the efficiency, of these Nazis? I have. I tried to leave the fear of it behind, but I suspect I haven’t left it far enough. Perhaps it will never leave me. Perhaps it lives inside me.”

  “What will you do?”

  “I’ll be all right. I have my camera, and besides, I’m off to America very soon. I’ve had enough of Vogue. The editor, Michel de Brunhoff, swears he would not publish the magazine if the Nazis turn up, but most of the Vogue staff are frightful snobs. They’re only interested in you if you have a title or a perversion. I suspect they’ll be perfectly happy when a bunch of highborn Nazis arrive to occupy their city. Just so long as they’re immaculately dressed.”

  “So you really believe that the Nazis will occupy Paris?”

  “For sure. My concierge friend tells me that some German officers have already made reservations at the Ritz.”

  The Ritz. That cocoon of velvet opulence, where women still sat taking tea in Limoges china and choosing between mille-feuilles and éclairs. Where the Duke and Duchess of Windsor kept a suite and Noël Coward regularly dropped in. Clara thought of her brief visit to Coco Chanel’s mirrored salon the previous year and wondered if the designer’s powder-blue Rolls-Royce was still parked outside.

  “Does Chanel still live there?”

  He laughed. “She has room 302. Chanel may have liberated women’s bodies from corsets, but she can’t liberate herself from the damn Nazis. You know about her German boyfriend, of course.”

  Chanel’s association with the Gestapo officer Spatz Dincklage was the talk of Paris.

  “But surely…if it came to an occupation? A famous Frenchwoman like Chanel?”

  “Nothing would change. Chanel says she doesn’t believe in anything. She believes only in fashion.”

  He spun around, all traces of gloom vanished and his lively face transformed. “You’re staying the night, I hope?”

  “Just one night. I wish it was more.”

  “Then you must come to a party.”

  “What kind of party?”

  “Does it matter? There are parties every night now. We’re making the most of it. It’s a reception at the Dingo Bar. There will be all kinds of faces there. Will you come?”

  “Why not?”

  “In that case, I have something for you.”

  He went behind the screen and returned again with an armful of shimmering silk, which he shook out to reveal a halter-neck evening gown, a fluid drape of deep blue satin with a backless plunge that culminated in a bow and fell from the waist in sleek Grecian pleats. Clara’s eyes widened.

  “It’s by Alix. Madame Grès. She dresses Marlene Dietrich and Greta Garbo. This frock is one of a kind. You won’t find anyone else wearing it.”

  Clara couldn’t stop herself from touching it, feeling the slippery flow of the satin between her fingers, marveling at its color, the profound blue of a deep summer sea.

  “I’m sorry,” she said decisively. “I can’t take it.”

  “That’s a shame. It’s not my size.” He grinned.

  “I mean it’s too generous.”

  “Miss Vine. You mistake my motivation. I’m off to New York any day now. Do you truly think I want to weigh myself down with ladies’ gowns?”

  Bundling the dress into a bag, he handed it to her with a smile and said, “Wear it tonight. I’ll meet you there. The party will be fun, but be careful, please. Don’t say anything that could compromise you. The Gestapo are already everywhere. They’re deciding who to arrest when war comes.”

  —

  IT WAS STRANGE TO stroll through the streets of Paris again. Everything about the city sharpened Clara’s senses, making her surroundings appear in immense clarity, the details finely set like jewels. In St.-Germain, people in cafés were eating ice cream from little silver bowls, and the scent of frying onions wafting out of an upstairs window made her mouth water. Pungent herb fragrances floated from the door of a spice shop, and the intoxicating aroma of baking bread issuing from a boulangerie was so potent she could barely walk past. She passed galleries and shops brimming with bric-a-brac, elegant little bookstores, and a perfumier whose aromatic floral haze drifted seductively into the street.

  Crossing the Seine, she reached the First Arrondissement, the heart of French fashion. The little streets around the Place Vendôme and the Rue Cambon were full of milliners and fashion salons and the perfect place for window shopping. On the ground floors were the mirrored cocoons of the haute couturiers, with their gilt fittings and silk drapes, while above them were ateliers of seamstresses patiently stitching the latest creations of Worth and Chanel and Balenciaga. For a moment Clara dallied in front of a blue Schiaparelli jacket, with gold buttons and a rich scarlet lining, before turning away.

  In the end she bought some Gauloises—good tobacco was like gold dust in Berlin, and people had resorted to stretching it with rose petals and grass—and several bars of Menier chocolate. Then she made her way to the Hotel d’Angleterre.

  CHAPTER

  19

  The Hotel d’Angleterre in the Rue Jacob was a long way from the Ritz, in both geography and décor. The chandeliers in the gloomy hallway wore a slight coat of dust, the stone steps with their twisty wrought-iron banisters smelled of cleaning fluid, and the gilded chairs in the reception area were showing their age. But Clara’s room, at the back, overlooking the courtyard, was clean enough, papered in faded toile de Jouy, with a heavy wooden armoire, a basin prettily tiled with flowered designs, and even a bar of soap. She picked it up and sniffed it greedily. It had a fragrance of lemon a
nd cream, so unlike the soap at home, which was mostly a rank combination of animal fat and detergent. After a speculative moment, Clara tucked the little tablet away in her bag.

  She traveled light—she always had—ever since her days in repertory theater in London, so there was not much to unpack. Once she had removed her clean underwear from the suitcase and hung her fresh blouse in the armoire, she washed, then pulled on dark stockings and a pair of lizard-skin T-straps with a peep toe, and reached for the Madame Grès evening dress.

  It was beautiful enough laid out on the bed, but when she put it on it came alive. It fitted perfectly, and the material, far from being heavy, moved like gossamer. It looked timeless, as a classic dress should, and it possessed a kind of purity that meant it would never date. The glimmering satin clung to her body, flattering her curves at the bodice and flowing in Grecian folds from the waist.

  Next she put on Steffi’s pearl necklace, feeling its unfamiliar weight heavy against her neck, took out a bottle labeled SOIR DE PARIS, and touched a dab behind each of her ears. As the perfume, with its voluptuous notes of vanilla and violet, rose and mingled with the Paris air, it reminded her of Leo, who had loved it, and suddenly it was as though he was standing right there beside her.

  She felt his presence so powerfully that she turned instinctively and stared around her. She felt his smile, his touch, his ironic humor. The shards of gold in his green eyes, the warmth of his arms around her. It was as though the whole of his personality had been distilled into an intense and visceral reality.

  Was this Leo? Or had the force of her longing conjured a phantom out of empty air? Her mind went back to the precious weeks they had spent last year. For the first time, she realized it no longer mattered that she had refused his proposal of marriage. She didn’t require any ring from him. Her commitment was deep inside. A band of longing that tightened round her heart when she thought of him. Despite everything she had been told, she held on to the belief she would see him again.

  The Dingo Bar was at 10 Rue Delambre, a small street leading south from the Carrefour Vavin. The key to its success was the barman, Jimmy Charters, a onetime boxer from Liverpool, whose jovial presence drew a loyal crowd of wealthy American and British expatriates. Steps led down from the side of the bar to a nightclub crammed with people, as though all the tension and energy of the streets was somehow contained in this crowded arena full of smoke and heat. The dance floor was surrounded by tiny tables, and on the dais, a chanteuse was singing Cole Porter’s “Night and Day.” It was one of Clara’s favorites, the rhythm tapped out like a heartbeat, its words coiled into her brain:

  Whether near to me or far,

  It’s no matter, darling, where you are,

  I think of you, night and day.

  It was almost impossible to move amid the crush of bodies. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, Clara’s gaze snagged on Thomas Epstein at the bar, drinking a Negroni. Beside him, the barman was pouring champagne into a glass containing a slice of peach, a sugar cube, and brandy. He offered the glass to a rangily beautiful woman with a clear brow and a loud laugh.

  “Who’s that?” Clara asked Epstein.

  “Lee Miller. Another American. Paris is crammed with them.”

  A glance around the bar, at the Brooks Brothers suits and healthy tans, seemed to confirm it.

  “Americans are always more optimistic than the rest of us. They won’t let any war get in the way of their fun. There’s a gossip columnist here, Elsa Maxwell, who has taken to replacing RSVP on her invitations with ICNW. It stands for In Case No War. Amusing, eh?”

  “What about the British? Are they still coming to Paris?”

  “Sure. They don’t dare go to Berlin anymore, but Paris is just a hop across the Channel.”

  As if on cue, from behind them came a high English voice, strident with self-assurance and too much champagne. Clara turned to see a young woman, her body encased in a metallic silver-and-jet gown as tight as a bicycle inner tube. There was an empty bottle of champagne at her elbow, and she was haranguing an earnest young man, who was braced against the bar, unable to escape. He flinched as she waved her glass in his face.

  “Don’t tell me there’s going to be a war, Jack! What a doom monger you are. Nothing will happen. France lost a million and a half men in the last war, can you imagine they will go through that again? For the French, simply having to drink chicory coffee constitutes a major sacrifice!”

  “I recognize that woman,” said Clara quietly. “It’s Dolly Capel. She’s a friend of our family.”

  The Capels were a wealthy landowning dynasty who had been generous donors to the Anglo-German Fellowship. Their support was heartfelt. They were said to keep a Meissen porcelain statuette of a Nazi storm trooper—a present from von Ribbentrop—on their mantelpiece.

  As if sensing she was being watched, Dolly wheeled round. She enveloped Clara in a hot embrace, smelling of sweat and Guerlain’s Mitsouko.

  “Clara! Darling! Fancy finding you here! Where’s Angela?”

  “My sister? Certainly not here.”

  “Aren’t you with her? I thought you were with her.”

  “She’s not in Paris, as far as I know.”

  “Isn’t she? Well, tell her to come. I’m having a simply glorious holiday. At least here people refuse to let this war talk cramp their style. There’s a shop window near me where all the mannequins have gas masks over their shoulders with little colored bows on. Isn’t that just like the French? So elegant. In London it’s all Kirby grips and cardigans. The first hint of war and everyone gets out the sackcloth and ashes.”

  “Are you on holiday here?” asked Clara, mildly incredulous.

  “Absolutely, darling. And I’m making the most of it. I was booked onto a slimming course at a spa, but the staff swore war was coming and we would all starve, so I thought why bother to do the Germans’ work for them? Besides, everyone’s here. D’you know the Mitfords? I saw Nancy just yesterday. She’s been down in Perpignan in the south with that husband of hers, helping Spanish refugees. They’re in camps there apparently, on the border, and Nancy had to drive a Ford van full of supplies. Can you imagine? I think it’s tired her out because when I bumped into her in the elevator of my hotel she was frightfully short with me.”

  Sharing a lift with Dolly Capel would reduce anyone to silence, Clara thought.

  “She said she’s writing a new novel. The pursuit of something. I forget. What’s Nancy pursuing, do you think?”

  Peace, probably. But Dolly did not stop for an answer.

  “Anyhow, I’d just been shopping and bought this adorable frock. I thought it was frightfully slimming, but Nancy said it made me look like I had been swallowed by a boa constrictor. What do you think?”

  “It’s very striking.”

  “Thank you, sweetie. Oh…” As though in an afterthought, Dolly turned to the man beside her and said, “Have you met Jack? Perhaps I should introduce you two. Clara Vine, this is Jack Kennedy. His father’s the American ambassador.”

  The young man standing before Clara was exceptionally thin, with a square-jawed, pale face and a broad smile that revealed flawless American teeth. A row of dazzling ivory as regular as piano keys, the kind you never saw in European mouths, so used to filtering black tea and rough tobacco. His expression, too, had an earnest optimism about it that seemed unique to his nation. The family of Joe Kennedy, the American ambassador to London, had cut a swathe through English society, and Angela had frequently relayed how glamorous they were and how good at tennis.

  He looked at Clara gratefully, scenting escape.

  “We haven’t met,” she said, taking his hand, “but you’ve met my sister, Angela Mortimer.”

  His skinny frame belied his strength. His handshake was strong enough to crack a safe.

  “So you’re Angela’s sister! Are you just over from London too?”

  He pulled over a barstool, took out a pack of Gauloises, leaned forward, and flipped a lighter. He was a tr
ue politician’s son—his manner immediately warm and engaged.

  “Berlin actually.”

  “A tourist?”

  “I live there.”

  He was instantly focused. “As it happens, I’m just back from Danzig and Warsaw.”

  “What did you make of the situation there?”

  “The Poles were dreading a Nazi attack, but I’m not sure. And even if it came, would the Poles really fight over Danzig?”

  “Everything’s politics with Jack,” said Dolly, bored already. “Don’t expect any chat, Clara. He’s gorgeous, but he doesn’t make small talk.” She turned to leave, doodling a finger on Clara’s shoulder. “If you do run into Angela, ask her to look me up. I’m at the Montalembert.”

  As Dolly disappeared, Clara turned back to the young man with the wide smile and quiet intensity. She guessed that as an ambassador’s son, Jack Kennedy might be privy to more information than a regular tourist. Softly she said, “Yes. I think the Poles will fight. And they’ll lose.”

  Kennedy sighed, rubbed his back, and ran a hand through his hair. Perhaps the complexities of what he had witnessed in his tour of Europe had taken a physical toll.

  “You know, Miss Vine, at one time I genuinely believed that Fascism was right for Germany and Italy. The freeways were so impressive. The societies were orderly. I thought their evils were nothing compared with Communism. Now, I’m not so sure. I’m still trying to understand the fascination that surrounds Hitler. Do you understand it?”

  Clara thought of the cheering birthday crowd that she had stood in so very recently, and the Führer shrine in the home of Lottie Franke. “A little.”

  Something about the expression on Kennedy’s face, the earnestness in his eyes, roused in Clara a passionate desire to explain. Here was an American, the son of a very influential figure, who had, until recently, believed that Fascism was the right answer for Europe. Now he was asking her opinion. She needed to do everything in her power to let him know what the Nazi regime was really like. And yet…how much could she tell him, without giving herself away? Even here in Paris, even in the depths of a backstreet bar in Montparnasse, the Gestapo were entrenched. She recalled Epstein’s warning. Don’t say anything that could compromise you here. The Gestapo are everywhere already. They’re deciding who to arrest when war comes.