by Bodie Thoene
“No, nothing to speak of,” David replied.
“Not surprised you couldn’t manage it properly. Didn’t you learn anything? Why don’t you go back home where you belong? We can get along without your help. Isn’t that right?” Badger called over his shoulder to his fellows at the bar.
“Ah, pipe down, Badger,” one of them responded. “Pay him no mind, Yank. He’s tight.”
“The gear was stuck,” David said hotly. “It could happen to anyone. Now let me by, please. I want to get something to eat.” David slipped off his flight jacket, and as he did so, Annie’s letter fluttered to the floor.
Badger beat David to it, snatching it up and holding it out of reach. “Ooh-la-la,” he said, leering and waving the letter for all to see. “Lilac and lavender for the Yank. Where’s she from, Yank? London postmark,” he reported to his audience, tucking the letter in his pocket. “You Yanks come over here and wave a wad of dough about, so all the women drop their knickers for you. Some poor sod off in the service will be pining away, while his girl is doing the dirty with the likes of you.”
“Give me back my letter,” David demanded. He could feel the prickle on the back of his neck that he had always noticed right before a fight, ever since he was a kid.
“Say, ‘pretty please,’” Badger taunted, mugging for his friends.
“Pretty please,” David replied and threw his jacket in Badger’s face. While Badger was clawing at the coat, trying to clear his vision, David hit him in the mouth as hard as he could.
Badger spun half around, stumbling over a bar stool, then tried to respond with an overhand right that would have felled an ox if it had landed.
But David ducked under the blow, landed two punches in the other pilot’s ribs, and danced out of the way.
“Get him, Badger,” called one of the bystanders. “Don’t let him do that to you!”
Badger nodded and came toward David, a thin trickle of blood running from his nose and over his lip. David tried a couple more punches that bounced harmlessly off the heavier man’s forearms.
“Caught me when I wasn’t looking,” Badger said in a panting voice. “Try it again, why don’t you, Yank?”
David circled to his left, keeping the other man off balance. Tiring of the game, Badger gave up boxing in favor of grappling and forged straight in, trying to grab David around the middle.
David got in two blows that hammered Badger’s eyes before being borne back against the edge of the bar. The force of the rush threw David down hard, and his head cracked sharply on the walnut counter. Badger raised both fists together over his head, preparing to smash them down on David’s face.
Without an instant to spare, David thrust his right into Badger’s throat, who gave a gurgling sound and rolled off. Outside there was a shrill whistle as the local constabulary came to investigate the uproar.
“’Ere now, what’s all this?” demanded the policeman, thumping his nightstick against his palm with evident relish. “Drunk and disorderly, are we? Brawling?”
“No sir, Constable,” spoke up one of the fliers. “The Yank there was just showing Badger some new boxing moves, imported from the States.”
“Uh-huh,” said the policeman, eyeing the blood dripping from Badger’s nose and the lump on the back of David’s head. “And I suppose they both slipped and fell into each other’s arms?”
“That’s it exactly, Constable,” Badger pledged. “A friendly little tussle in the interest of better foreign relations.”
“Uh-huh. Well, see that your diplomatic efforts don’t go any further, or I’ll call the watch and you can take your tussle to the guardhouse.”
When the policeman had gone, David yanked his crumpled letter from Badger’s pocket.
Badger moved as if he would renew the battle, but the stern look on the pubkeeper’s face must have convinced him that this was not the time.
“I won’t forget you, Yank,” Badger said. “I’ve got you down in my book.”
The richly appointed corridors and rooms of the French censors at the Hotel Continental were crowded with the junior staff of press agencies filing stories wired in from their frontline correspondents in Nancy. Former guest rooms decorated with delicate floral-print wallpaper and lace curtains were the backdrop for conflict between the censors and the members of the press.
Josephine Marlow was at the back of the queue. A lively argument ensued from a suite just up the hall. Josie recognized the voice of Mac McGrath as one of the combatants.
“What do you mean . . . won’t do?”
“It simply will not do, Monsieur. For the sake of morale—”
“Morale! These guys died up there fighting for France! Well . . . they died anyway. Don’t they deserve . . . ?”
“It is the decision of the committee, Monsieur McGrath. The footage has been confiscated.”
“I’ve driven all this way from the front lines at Nancy to bring this. . . .”
“You were in a forward area without an official press officer, in a place where you had no business to be.”
“So that’s it then?”
“Oui! As you say it. That is it.”
Josie searched for a place to hide. The linen closet was locked. She tried to squeeze into the nearest room but was warned off by angry glares from a crowd of male journalists who had been waiting for hours.
Too late. Mac left his oppressor with a string of uncensored American expletives and exploded, red-faced and grubby, into the corridor just a few feet from where Josie waited.
For an instant she thought he would storm past without seeing her. No such luck. He stood for a long moment, unshaven and rumpled. He had come straight from the front to the censors’ offices at the hotel without stopping to clean up.
He glanced her way, did a double take, and then ran his hand through his hair. He looked like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
“Hello, Mac.”
“Hullo, Jo.” His expression clearly displayed that he would rather not be seeing her right now either.
“Quite a ruckus in there.”
He shrugged and changed the subject. “So you made it back to Paris.”
“You were right. Things have changed since the war began.”
“Lousy censors. Herr Joseph Goebbels in Naziland is easier to deal with than these French poets and literary critics turned officials. Give ’em a little power and—”
“When I said things have changed, I was thinking more of other things.”
“Yeah. I haven’t slept in a couple days.”
“I meant the restaurants. They’re only serving half a cup of coffee, and there’s no more butter on the tables.”
“War is hell. I’m glad that’s all the trouble you’ve had.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Where you staying? I heard they requisitioned your block of flats for the French armees.”
“Foyer International.”
“Yeah?” He grinned. “With Mama Watson? Like being an inmate in a girls’ school, isn’t it?” His breath exploded in a sigh as his tension dissipated. “Well, nothing I can do around here.” He laughed and wiped his hands on his muddy coat. “Except take a bath and sleep for a week. And I’m hungry. You had lunch?”
“I am meeting—”
“Never mind,” he interrupted sharply. “I look like something the cat dragged in; I know.”
“You could use a bath. But I was about to say I’m meeting Alma Dodge for lunch if you’d like to come. If you want to go upstairs and bathe, we’ll meet you there.”
Josie blurted the invitation without thinking. What could be more awkward than sitting across from Mac and pretending that there was nothing between them? His nearness only sharpened her loneliness, making her nights longer. No more journalists! Why had she opened her big mouth?
He stared at the toes of his boots for a moment, then stepped closer to her. “Tonight?”
“Tonight . . . there’s that Polish thing at the Ritz,” she said too cheerfully.
“Rig
ht. The Polish thing.” Mac took her arm and put his face next to hers. He lowered his voice as though he were in pain. “Look. I can’t do this, you know? Pass you in a crowded hallway and end up sitting across from you with a teacup in my hand. I hate tea. I don’t know why I mentioned lunch just now. You confuse me, Jo. Last time we were together at the Langham I told myself I wouldn’t ask again. Better for me, I think. Sorry.” He ran his hand across his cheek. “Guess I need a shave. See you around.”
Darkness descended on Paris like a black curtain.
The interior of the Ritz Hotel on Place Vendome was as bright as ever. The lobby was a blaze of holiday lights that reflected endlessly in the massive gilt mirrors. A string quartet played Mozart as eminent men in dinner jackets and dress uniforms accompanied women in satin and jewels. The guests moved familiarly through the corridors and sitting rooms furnished with Louis XIV chairs and tables. A long arcade lined with shops lured browsers with diamonds and designer fashions. It seemed as if there was no war at the Ritz, and yet it was the war that drew such a distinguished crowd tonight.
The Society of the Friends of Poland had spared no expense in their reception for the former American ambassador to Poland, Anthony Biddle. The tables were laden with a buffet personally supervised by the head chef of the Ritz. An ice sculpture of the Eiffel Tower rose from the center of the buffet table; hors d’oeuvres were assembled to create a replica of Warsaw’s Cathedral of St. John. Polish flags draped the walls, and a banner stretched across the room proclaimed in French Forget not Poland!
In spite of the sentiment, the general attitude among the non-Polish guests in the crowd was that they would very much like to forget Poland. Invitations had been sent to every ambassador on Embassy Row. Of all the top diplomatic officers, only William Bullit, the American ambassador to France, was in attendance. The majority of the ambassadors from neutral nations had felt it was more proper to send their assistants. How would it look to Berlin, after all, if the top representative of a neutral nation nibbled caviar and drank champagne beneath a sign imploring them not to forget Poland, which had just been incorporated into the Reich?
Even the newsmen in attendance viewed the occasion as a very fancy wake for a very cold corpse. But the food was excellent, and here was opportunity to eat well and drink freely.
“Remember the Alamo,” Mac McGrath said as he raised his champagne glass, gulped the contents down in one go, and then took another from the serving tray of a passing waiter.
“A first-rate spread for a third-rate cause,” said Frank Blake, the squat, balding tyrant of Paris AP.
John Murphy eyed Blake disapprovingly. “Cynic. I should have stayed at the Maginot. At least there they think there are some things worth fighting for.”
“Right, Murphy. Ol’ bleeding heart Murphy!” commented Blake as he took another hors d’oeuvre off the steeple of the cathedral, giving it an ominous, bombed-out look. “I’ll tell you what they fight for. The English fight for tea, crumpets, and mother. The French fight for sex, a good table in a restaurant, and the right to a pension. Sensible people, the French. Trust me. I’ve been here long enough to know. First Kraut the Frogs see bobbing across the Meuse and they’ll cut and run.”
Mac could tell Murphy had already had enough of Frank Blake. It did not take much. Angry, Murphy grinned, thumped Mac on the back in farewell, turned, and wandered off into the babble of the crowd, leaving Mac alone to argue the point with Blake. Blake was already half drunk, and the evening had only begun.
“I saw Josephine Marlow at Hotel Continental today.” Mac tried to turn the topic to something he cared about. He had not stopped thinking about her. “How is she getting along?”
“That is one lady I do not talk politics with! I keep her covering the Paris bread lines. It’s safer, if you know what I mean.” Blake snorted and consumed another glass of champagne. “An idealist, that one. Raving lunatic when it comes to Poland and the Nazis. She was a lamb before she left Paris last August. Lovely little political cretin, she was. Now she’s Winston Churchill and Joan of Arc in one pretty package. Bonkers. Too bad. The whole thing spoiled a very nice, docile-type, feminine dame, if you ask me. Good writer though. Gets the job done. Good as ol’ Danny was that way.”
“Is she here?” Mac had been looking for her since his arrival thirty minutes earlier. He wanted another chance before he returned to Nancy. He needed to talk to her again.
“Josephine Marlow? You think she’d miss this? Bleeding heart Polacks.” Blake jerked his thumb at the shrinking edible edifice of the cathedral, then at a table across the room. “What say we go over there? They’ve built the Belvedere Palace out of smoked salmon.”
“Go on. I’ll catch up.” Mac watched Blake weave through the mash of Polish uniforms and tuxedoed bankers and oil magnates to the replica of the Belvedere Palace. Oblivious to the platter of smoked salmon and melba toast surrounding the sculpture, Blake thrust his fork into the dome and removed the roof—toast and salmon slices—onto his plate. A little Hitler, that one, Mac mused. He did not know how Josie could get along with him in the same office.
Knowing Josie, this would be a perfect topic of conversation. He mentally framed the hook for his lead paragraph. “Hi, Josie. Frank Blake is a real putz, isn’t he? He just ate half the caviar off the Cathedral of St. John, and now he’s attacking the Belvedere Palace. How can you stand working for this guy? What do you say we get out of here? Talk it out over coffee somewhere—”
Then Mac’s mental ridicule of Blake stopped short. What kind of heel was Mac acting like himself? One encounter with Josie Marlow and . . .
Mac patted the letter from Eva Weitzman he carried tucked in his coat pocket and felt more confused than ever.
8
A Rare Piece of Art
The reception at the Ritz was a logical place for Nicholi Federov, the White Russian, to continue his search for Richard Lewinski. Nearly everyone who had anything to do with his escape from Poland was in attendance.
Federov was certain of this fact because, as a member of the Friends of Poland Committee, he had helped make out the guest list. His firm had supplied the champagne. The bill, along with the rest of his expenses, would be submitted to the Gestapo.
His niece accompanied him on the social rounds and then wandered off somewhere while the Movietone film of the dramatic footage of Biddle’s escape from Warsaw was shown.
Federov made certain that he stood beside Mac McGrath during the showing. McGrath seemed distracted, disinterested in the whole affair.
“Magnificent footage, Mr. McGrath.” Federov spoke to him in English so there could be no misunderstanding. “An exciting trip, was it?”
“The last decent film in the war.”
The clip moved toward its climax, and the figure of Lewinski in his gas mask appeared close up. He pulled the mask up and mopped the perspiration from his brow.
“An odd-looking fellow,” Federov probed, taking care that McGrath could hear the amusement in his voice. “Who is he?”
“Some character taking up room in our car.” McGrath looked over his shoulder toward the door, as if searching for someone.
“He has to be something more than just a character if he escaped with the ambassador.”
“I suppose. Just another pretty face to me. Ask Biddle.” The American excused himself and walked to the entrance of the dining room. He scanned to the right and the left and then disappeared as applause from the appreciative crowd swelled.
Federov decided that Mac McGrath knew more than he was saying. There was, of course, no way to ask Ambassador Biddle about Lewinski. Biddle certainly knew everything or he would not have spirited the Jew out of Poland. Therefore Biddle would have nothing to say about his identity and less to say about the man’s current whereabouts.
As for the cameraman, Federov would put his Gestapo contacts to work on him. There were ways to find out what McGrath really knew about Lewinski.
“Americans.” Federov sighed as the lights ca
me up. He pondered his problem. It seemed obvious that the neutral Americans were holding all the cards in this matter. Probably they were also holding Lewinski. Or had they allowed this film past the censors to throw the Gestapo off the trail? Who else rode in the automobile with Lewinski from Warsaw to Rumania? McGrath would answer that after a little sensibly applied pressure.
There was only one way to confirm what Federov suspected. An active branch of the Friends of Poland was lobbying in Washington even now. Friends of Lewinski would doubtless also be active in the organization.
It was the color of the dress that first caught Andre’s eye. Cobalt blue satin, cut low in the back, it was worn by a tall woman with a graceful neck and thick, upswept, plaited chestnut hair. If the hair color had been blond, Andre might have mistaken her for Elaine from behind. He could not help himself. He stared at her, wishing she would turn around.
Attractive from the back, she apparently was worth looking at straight on as well. A semicircle of four male guests stood in front of her like smitten adolescents. Andre recognized Johnson, who had served as assistant to the American ambassador to Poland; at her right were the Polish Count Radziwill, grim and intense, and Clive Blackwell, the London journalist who had championed Chamberlain’s pacifist policies before the war. Finally, crowding in at her left hand, was Federov, the White Russian wine merchant, whose main interest in life was not commerce but social functions and beautiful women.
And then the blue dress turned enough so Andre could see the face in profile.
Madame Josephine Marlow. This was his first glimpse of her out of that khaki press uniform. Impressive. Unlike the other women in the crowd, she wore no jewels, no furs; she did not carry a beaded handbag. She was just there in the blue satin dress. Her face was fresh as a farm girl’s. Nose straight. Forehead high. Classic. And she was beautiful.
