Peril in Paris (Taylor and Rose Secret Agents)

by Katherine Woodfine

  Dr Bernard looked shocked. ‘Oh no, nothing like that! I had no idea. He always seemed perfectly comfortable.’

  ‘He even took on some additional work to help cover his debts. Did he ever tell you about it?’

  ‘Tutoring students, do you mean, or something of that kind?’ But before Dr Bernard could finish what he was saying, Sophie saw that some of the people around them had risen to their feet. Sir Chester himself had appeared beside them – he was greeting everyone personally, nodding and shaking hands. Just behind him came the young woman with the notebook.

  ‘I am Dr Emil Bernard, sir, from the Sorbonne,’ said the young scholar, getting to his feet in a hurry. ‘And this is Miss Blaxland, who is currently visiting from London.’

  ‘How do you do?’ said Sir Chester, shaking their hands cordially. ‘I must say, it’s a pleasure to see some young faces here tonight. Apart from the pilots, everyone seems rather aged – myself included, I regret! Are you interested in aviation, Dr Bernard?’

  Whilst Dr Bernard answered, Sophie found the young woman with the notebook at her elbow. ‘Did he say your name was Blaxland?’ she demanded.

  ‘That’s right. I’m Celia Blaxland – how do you do?’ replied Sophie, holding out a hand, while at the same time feeling a stab of trepidation. She didn’t at all like the searching way this young woman was looking at her.

  ‘Roberta Russell, of The Daily Picture. I work for Sir Chester – I’m here to cover the air race,’ replied the young woman, giving her hand a firm shake. Sophie recognised the name at once of course: after all, she read Miss Russell’s articles almost every day in the newspaper. Her stomach flipped over as she realised that she was standing in front of one of the smartest young journalists in London. Was there any way that her pose as Celia Blaxland, with her grand dress and elaborate hairstyle, would deceive Miss Russell? Or would she recognise Sophie at once as one of the young lady detectives of Taylor & Rose?

  ‘I must say, you look awfully familiar, Miss Blaxland. Have we met somewhere before?’ said the journalist sharply, almost as if she could hear her thoughts.

  Feeling increasingly anxious, Sophie tried to smile vaguely. ‘I don’t believe so. Though I did have my photograph in one or two of the magazines when I made my debut. Perhaps you might have seen one of them?’

  ‘Hmmm,’ said Miss Russell sceptically. She did not look in the least like the sort of girl who spent much time poring over the society pages. ‘Any relation to Professor James Blaxland? The fellow killed by burglars in his Paris apartment?’ she asked suddenly.

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so. Professor Blaxland was my uncle,’ Sophie replied carefully.

  ‘My condolences, Miss Blaxland.’ But Miss Russell was still looking at her, as though weighing her up. ‘That was a strange affair. Would’ve been on the front pages, if it wasn’t for everything else happening just now – all this business in Arnovia. Tell me –’

  But to Sophie’s enormous relief, Sir Chester interjected: ‘Miss Blaxland, Dr Bernard, let me introduce you to some of the young pilots. I’m sure they’d be delighted to have the opportunity to meet some young people after putting up with an evening’s conversation with us old bores.’ He ushered them over to Captain Nakamura’s table, Miss Russell following close at their heels.

  A group of men turned to greet them as they approached. ‘Miss Blaxland, Dr Bernard, may I present Signor Rossi of Milan? And this is Monsieur Claude Laurent. He’s the winner of last year’s Paris to Madrid race, you know, so he’ll be the man to beat.’ The tall, grave-faced Frenchman nodded coolly, while beside him the Italian pilot performed a low bow, with much flourishing. ‘And this is Captain Nakamura, of the Japanese Army,’

  ‘We met yesterday at the Sorbonne,’ said Nakamura with a solemn smile. ‘It’s a pleasure to see you again, Miss Blaxland. But where is your friend, who is so enthusiastic about aeroplanes?’

  Sophie smiled back and made a quick, evasive reply. She hoped Nakamura wouldn’t ask too many awkward questions about Tilly: Miss Blaxland was, after all, supposed to be travelling with a lady’s maid, and she didn’t imagine they typically had such an in-depth knowledge of aviation. But Sir Chester had already turned to a suave-looking fair man. ‘Then Mr Charlton – he’s one of the British pilots who’ll be flying the Union Jack for us tomorrow. Daring fellow, used to be a racing-car driver, before we persuaded him to turn his talents to flight. You’ll have to watch out for him in the air, eh, Laurent? And this is Herr Grün of Berlin. He’ll be flying the Farman monoplane tomorrow – a very fine machine’

  Sophie smiled at the young Englishman as he shook her hand, but when Sir Chester indicated the fifth man, Herr Grün, it was all she could do to keep her face fixed into a courteous expression. The German pilot bowed politely, evidently not recognising her, but she knew him at once. Herr Grün was the man whose face she had seen illuminated in the sudden bright beam of torchlight the previous night. He had been in the Professor’s apartment with the grey man. He wasn’t just a pilot: he was a spy.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  La Lune Bleue, Paris

  Sophie knew she mustn’t show her alarm. She tried to fix her attention on the conversation, nodding and smiling as Sir Chester exchanged a few pleasantries with the pilots. She was fairly sure that Herr Grün would not connect the elegant young lady in the blue evening gown with the intruder in the rough cap who had broken a bottle of wine over his head the previous night, but she could not be absolutely certain of it.

  ‘Well, I shall leave you young people to continue the celebrations’ said Sir Chester at last, strolling away from them towards another waiting group. ‘Enjoy yourselves tonight.’

  ‘Yes , tomorrow we shall be competitors, but tonight we should celebrate as friends!’ declared Signor Rossi enthusiastically, clapping the nearest pilot – M. Laurent – on the back. The Frenchman looked slightly disgusted and took a small sidestep away.

  But Charlton nodded approvingly. ‘Yes, I call that a splendid idea,’ he agreed. ‘Raising a glass and toasting one another’s success, as gentlemen. Quite right too. Good show, Rossi. And you must join us, Dr Bernard and Miss Blaxland – and Miss Russell too, of course.’

  ‘Where shall we go?’ asked Captain Nakamura.

  ‘Ah, but there is only one choice!’ exclaimed Rossi at once. ‘It must be La Lune Bleue – they say it is the best nightspot in Paris! The finest dancing – the best champagne and cognac – the music –’

  ‘Oh, I say,’ interrupted Charlton, in a hurry. ‘But I’m not sure that it’s quite the sort of place to take ladies.’

  But Miss Russell was not to be put off that easily. ‘Don’t worry your head about us, Mr Charlton,’ she said with a smirk. ‘I’m quite sure we can cope, can’t we, Miss Blaxland?’

  Dr Bernard looked rather uncertain about the idea, but Sophie nodded at once, thrilled by this unexpected opportunity. This would be her chance to see La Lune Bleue! The waiter at the Café Monique had said that Madame Delacroix would be there tonight – perhaps she could find her and speak to her! And what was more, if Herr Grün joined them, she might have the opportunity to discover more about the German spy.

  She knew she was taking a risk. The more time she spent with Grün, the greater the danger that he might recognise her from the Professor’s apartment. Then there was Miss Russell, who was still watching her intently. But she felt a burst of reckless excitement as they came out of Le Palais Antoine, and she found herself clambering into a cab with Captain Nakamura, Dr Bernard and Miss Russell. Just ahead of them, she saw that Grün was getting into a second, along with Rossi, Charlton and Laurent. As she watched, he glanced quickly back over his shoulder, and she hurriedly turned her face away.

  Miss Russell leaned towards Sophie as they settled into the carriage. ‘You know, I’m sure we’ve met before, Miss Blaxland,’ she murmured. ‘And I’m certain it isn’t because I’ve seen you in Tatler. ’ Sophie just shrugged and smiled, but Miss Russell gave a little bubbling laugh. ‘Mark my
words, Miss Blaxland, I’ll find out your secret. It’s my job – I always do.’

  It was rather a relief when the cab pulled up outside La Lune Bleue and Miss Russell’s attention was distracted. Montmartre seemed very different in the dark: the cobbled streets she’d seen in daylight were now a blur of coloured lights and illuminated signs and shadows. They were whisked at once through an entrance, the blue velvet curtains swinging back to admit them.

  Inside there was music and darkness, broken only by the greenish-golden glow of electric lights filtered through a smoky haze. Circular tables were arranged in a semicircle around an immense stage, draped with curtains and decorated with gold-and-silver lights. Here, a line of dancers kicked and whirled, their skirts flying in a vivid splash of colour – scarlet and yellow, emerald-green and pink.

  Their party was directed towards a mezzanine where a number of tables had been laid ready for them, but Sophie hung back. She did not want to spend any more time than she needed with the sharp-eyed Roberta Russell – what she wanted was to try to track down the Professor’s friend, Madame Delacroix.

  Slipping quietly away from their group before Dr Bernard noticed she was gone, she began to look keenly around her. Most of the tables were occupied by parties of rowdy gentlemen, though here and there she noticed a lady in evening dress. Waiters in white coats moved between them, pouring champagne. Archways led out of the main hall into several smaller rooms: here, she saw three gentlemen in silk hats smoking cigars; there, two ladies reclining on a chaise, laughing behind their fans at some unheard joke. Peeping through a curtain, Sophie thought she saw a card game taking place – a quick glimpse of a green baize tablecloth and playing cards – but as she tried to step through, a waiter appeared and pulled the curtain carefully into place, blocking her view. ‘I am sorry, mademoiselle. This is a private party.’

  ‘I’m looking for Madame Delacroix,’ Sophie tried. ‘I wondered if she was inside? Do you know where I might find her? My name is Blaxland – Celia Blaxland.’

  ‘One moment, mademoiselle.’ The waiter disappeared between the curtains, returning a moment later. ‘Yes, she will speak with you. Please, follow me.’

  Sophie followed the waiter under another archway; through an empty salon, sumptuously furnished; and then into another small room, swathed entirely in rich blue fabric, the carpeted floor scattered with heaps of silk and velvet cushions. It was like stepping into a tent. Dimly, Sophie could hear the hum of the music, but it was fainter now, far away as though muffled by the rich draperies.

  ‘Voilà, Madame Delacroix,’ said the waiter, bowing before he departed.

  In the centre of the little room, a woman uncurled herself from where she was sitting on a large cushion. She had a frizz of hair into which a large crimson rose had been pinned; and her lips were lacquered a daring crimson to match it. She was smoking a cigarette in a long holder, and she wore long, glittering earrings, which tinkled as she tilted her head and looked at Sophie appraisingly. She said nothing.

  Sophie stepped forward. ‘My name is Celia Blaxland,’ she began. ‘I believe that my uncle, Professor Blaxland, was a friend of yours?’

  The woman put down her cigarette abruptly. Then she muttered something to herself in French, too low and rapid for Sophie to hear.

  ‘At the Café Monique, the waiter told me that I might find you here,’ she continued, a little desperately. ‘I want to talk to some of the people who knew him, you see. May I sit?’

  The woman still did not speak, and Sophie boldly took a seat beside her. ‘I’m trying to find out more about what happened to him,’ she explained.

  ‘What happened to him …’ the woman whispered. She looked away from Sophie for a moment, and when she looked back, her face was fierce and unhappy. ‘How can I be sure that you are who you say you are?’ she demanded. She shook her head, and then took a swig from the glass of cloudy liquid on the table in front of her. ‘No. I can’t say anything. I can’t. I mustn’t.’

  ‘Say anything about what?’ asked Sophie, leaning forward.

  ‘That’s the mistake he made. Saying too much. It was all because of the money. So stupid. It got him mixed up with the wrong people.’ She lowered her voice.  ‘He was working for them, you know. He was working for them both.’

  ‘Working for who?’ asked Sophie breathlessly. Was this strange woman talking about the Bureau? Did she know about the Professor’s secret work?

  ‘He knew that someone was coming. When I last saw him he was terribly afraid … I think he was afraid for his life. ’

  Sophie stared at her, fascinated. By someone, did she mean Ziegler’s spies? Had the Professor known that the Germans were on his trail? ‘You know that it wasn’t an ordinary burglary that killed the Professor, don’t you?’ she said gently, trying to encourage the woman to say more. ‘It was something else.’

  But the woman remained silent. All of Sophie’s persuasive questions came to nothing. At last she spat out: ‘I don’t know you. I won’t talk to you. You should go!’

  When Sophie did not move she hissed at her like a cat: ‘Go away! Leave me alone!’

  Alarmed, Sophie sprang to her feet. But then suddenly, the woman reached out a long thin hand and grabbed her sleeve, pulling her back. ‘If you are who you say you are, you shouldn’t stay here,’ she said in a low, furtive voice. ‘Go back to England. Do not ask these questions. Forget about what happened to him.  It isn’t safe.’

  As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she flung a long crimson shawl about her shoulders and then abruptly rose up and departed. Sophie was on her feet and after her at once, but as soon as she had ducked through the curtain, she could see no sign of Madame Delacroix anywhere. She seemed to have vanished into the crowd.

  After a minute or two, she gave up and walked swiftly back towards the group of pilots. The strange encounter had prompted more questions than it had answered. What had Madame Delacroix meant when she’d talked about the Professor saying too much ? Could it be that he’d become indiscreet about his secret work for the British government? Was that how Ziegler’s agents had tracked him down? Could the Professor really have known he was in danger? Should Sophie even believe a single word that Madame Delacroix had said?

  As she approached the two tables where the pilots were sitting, drinking champagne, Dr Bernard jumped to his feet. ‘Miss Blaxland! I was worried!’ he exclaimed. ‘Where have you been?’

  Beside him, Miss Russell rolled her eyes. ‘Come and sit by me,’ she said, pulling out a chair beside her and patting it. ‘And for goodness’ sake, I hope you’ve got something to talk about besides aeroplanes. I’m as fascinated by flight as anyone, but I’m afraid I’ve quite run of conversation about engines.’

  Sophie took the chair, trying to set aside her extraordinary encounter with Madame Delacroix for the time being. There was still Grün to watch, sitting at the next table, listening to Rossi telling some wild story. It was warm and she was glad of the excuse to open her fan, which she hoped would keep her face at least partly concealed.

  ‘Tell me about your work,’ she said swiftly to Miss Russell. She was always interested in other young women who were earning their own living, but what was more, she felt that if she could encourage the journalist to talk about herself, there was less danger of her asking difficult questions. ‘How long have you been working for Sir Chester Norton?’

  ‘Almost two years,’ said Miss Russell. ‘It’s not a bad job. Plenty of travel, which I’ve always wanted. Lots of papers won’t hire women, or if they do, it’s only to write about fashions or society news and that sort of rot. But Norton’s not like that. He sees people’s potential – he’s smart that way. Somehow he always manages to be two steps ahead of everyone else.’ Seeing that Sophie was listening with interest, she leaned a little forward across the table. ‘Take this flying business, for example,’ she said, lowering her voice so the others around them wouldn’t hear. ‘He might say the air race is about supporting technical innovation,
or collaborating with nations across Europe, or even about selling papers. But the truth is, he’s thinking about the big picture. Really, it’s all about making sure that they don’t get an advantage over us. ’ She flicked a quick finger at the pilots at the next table – Laurent, Rossi and Grün.

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’ asked Sophie.

  ‘Aviation. The French are miles ahead of us, you know, and the Americans and the Germans aren’t far behind. D’you know, in Germany, Prince Heinrich himself has learned to fly a plane, and he’s the Kaiser’s brother and an admiral in the German Navy. The German military are taking aeroplanes very seriously, and the Japanese too – that’s why Nakamura was sent here to train as a pilot, and to learn about aviation from the French. If Britain doesn’t keep up, we’ll be frightfully vulnerable. At the moment, our government aren’t investing in aviation, and Norton wants to make them sit up and take notice. That’s what all this is really about.’ She lowered her voice even further: ‘You didn’t hear this from me, but he’s offered Charlton a bonus as well as the prize money if he can beat Laurent and the others. You know – to show the world what British pilots can do.’

  But Sophie was still thinking about what Miss Russell had said about the German military. ‘D’you mean that aeroplanes could be used if a war broke out?’ she asked.

  Miss Russell nodded. ‘Of course they could. Just think of the possibilities. The Americans are already experimenting with dropping bombs out of planes you know. And then there’s surveillance.’

  Sophie’s eyes widened. Her work for the Secret Service Bureau made her only too aware of what the possibilities of aeroplanes might mean for spies. ‘You could fly a plane right over enemy lines, and spy on them from the air,’ she said slowly. ‘See exactly what they were doing.’

  ‘And if you had a camera, you could even take photographs,’ agreed Miss Russell. ‘Just imagine that.’