The Last Time I Saw Paris

by Lynn Sheene

  Claire stared at the woman next to him. Mean eyes, small mouth. They recognized each other at the same moment.

  “Madame Sylvie Olivier,” Claire said, before she could speak. “How enchanting to see you again.”

  Sylvie stared at Claire’s necklace. “How did you get in here?”

  Claire felt her face go hot. Forcing a smile, she snuggled tight against von Richter. “Perhaps you can ask to review the guest list next time.”

  “Goodnight, Kapitän.” Von Richter pulled her against him as they stepped out into the cold night air. “Interesting acquaintance you have, Claire.”

  “Mmm,” Claire agreed, her attention on von Richter’s hand sliding below the curve of her back.

  Von Richter tasted Claire from her lips to the vee of her dress before the car pulled up in front of the Ritz. The soldiers that had stared at Claire earlier that day offered sharp salutes as the couple stepped through the arched stone doorway into the hotel.

  He steered Claire toward tall golden columns at the bottom of a staircase. The soldier standing guard saluted von Richter, his eyes moving discreetly to the floor as Claire passed. At the top of the stairs, von Richter glanced over his shoulder then looked to her with some pride. “Only officers of the Reich may occupy the Vendôme building of the Ritz. The decomposing remains of Parisian high society are stuck in the back against the Cambon.”

  Claire thought of the parade of jackboots down this long hallway and swallowed the bad taste in her mouth. The walls seemed to narrow as they walked. Von Richter’s hand slid lower.

  He stopped in front of the third door, one hand fumbling with the keys, the other hand on Claire. The door opened and he pulled her inside the foyer. A phone rang.

  He released her with a sigh. “One moment.”

  Claire stepped into the salon, her eyes taking in every detail. She passed an antique desk and chair in Louis XVI style and walked toward the windows. The skyline of Opéra Garnier was visible in the distance. She glanced at a stack of papers on the desk; the top sheet dated that day. A list of names followed by numbers, then in the last column, initials. Ml, MV, Fs, Verkehr. A signature line at the bottom awaited von Richter’s hand. Could those initials be the prisons, Montluc, Mont-Valérien, Fresnes? What was Verkehr? Hope bubbled inside her. A trail to find Grey.

  Von Richter hung up the phone behind her and met her at the window, sliding his hands down her sides to the slit of her dress. He kissed the side of her neck. “Nice view, isn’t it?”

  Her resolve hardened. “Hmm,” Claire said, allowing herself a small smile.

  “Tell me about this Le Lis Enchaîné,” Von Richter said.

  Claire lifted her dress. “Step one.”

  The room was black, heavy shades drawn tight. Claire slid from the bed and crawled on all fours to the salon. She felt her way to the door, slipped inside then pushed it shut behind her. Sitting on the desk chair, she felt for the matches she’d seen earlier, found one and lit it.

  The diamonds she wore glittered in the light against her bare skin. She moved the flame until she saw the pile of papers. Lighting a candle, she peeled open the stack of forms, scanning each one. A week of what she thought might be prisoner transports, memos in German. But no mention of Thomas Grey. She sat back and closed her eyes, shouted at the ache in her groin. She knew Grey had to be alive. And she’d find him.

  In the meantime, she’d be a good spy.

  Claire pulled out a pen and hotel stationery. She began to write in clear small letters. She had completed the page when she heard von Richter stir. In one movement, she blew out the match, grabbed the notepad and replaced the paper on the stack. On her knees, she found her dress thrown over the sofa and slipped the page beneath it. A moment later, she slid back in bed, heart racing, as she listened to von Richter’s slow breath.

  The next morning before light, Claire pulled on her dress, tucked the paper inside the lining and, shoes in hand, headed for the door.

  “Where are you going?” Von Richter sat up in bed, his mouth petulant.

  Claire went back and kissed him long and hard on the lips. “Miss me already?”

  He wrenched her to him and jerked the dress over her head. Claire palmed the paper as it slipped free. Her free hand reached down beneath the covers, grasping him tight, as she slid the note between the mattresses.

  He smacked her on her buttocks then threw her on her back on the pillows. “I didn’t say you could leave yet.” He reached between her legs.

  His roughness made it easy to shut down, to arrange her body as she would a doll. Her goading whispers in his ear hurried him. She had a delivery to make.

  Afterward, von Richter smoked a cigarette from bed as he watched her dress. “I know your type, Claire. Your French husband may have left you a few centimes, but a woman like you doesn’t stay alone.”

  She gave her best enigmatic smile, body tensing for his next words.

  “He is married isn’t he? He keeps you on the side, an apartment near a Métro station. He comes by in the afternoon on his way home from work.”

  Claire sat on the bed, bent over to slip on her shoes and slide the paper back into her dress. He had Claire Harris Stone pegged alright. Once upon a time that man might have been Laurent, the Comte, anyone. “You got a better offer, Alby darling? What would your Führer say?” She turned toward the door. “We had a night. A very, very good one. That’s all it can be.”

  Von Richter caught up with her in the foyer. He pulled her against him, spoke into her hair. “I am a Sturmbannführer. I can have whatever or whoever I want. Don’t forget that.” He pressed his lips hard against hers until she softened in his arms. “Bring your things this afternoon. Lieutenant Schneider will take you to your room—on the Cambon side.” He reached for the phone. “The lieutenant will escort you to the door.”

  The sky was scrubbed to a clear blue and the air smelled fresh, with just a hint of last night’s storm. Claire forced herself to take a leisurely route to the dentist’s office to drop off the note, keeping an eye behind her and doubling back twice. She made a show of considering the play in the theater next door before she slipped the note in the dentist’s box without stopping.

  In her mind, she was cataloguing what she’d seen in von Richter’s study the night before. She knew she’d be able to find something of value. Grey’s voice, wry and low, came from the recesses of her mind. Don’t get greedy, my little spy.

  Her heart ached. She paused in front of a store window. Her reflection stared back at her. Haunted was what she would call that face. She willed her features to smooth, her eyes turned to glass. They see weakness and you’re dead, she told herself. And so is Grey. She took one last look behind her and boarded the Métro for her hotel. It was time to move up.

  Lieutenant Schneider met her at the Ritz concierge desk off rue Cambon, his face impassive, eyes cold. Without a word, he took her bag and led her down the corridor. An elevator to the third floor, at the end of a hallway. He opened the door, set her bag inside and handed her the key. “The Sturmbannführer asked you to notify me should you need anything.” He turned on his heel and left.

  Her breath caught in her throat as she stepped inside her room. Ceiling-to-floor windows overlooked the gardens below with leafy trees shading a long grass alleé. A delicate chandelier hung over the bed, a gilded mirror rested over a white vanity. Claire dropped her bag and slid onto the four-poster bed that seemed to welcome her. Suddenly feeling her lack of sleep, she examined the pale butter walls through half-closed eyes. Blue curtains were gathered with silk rope; the floor was carpeted in flowers the color of sky. Her eyes closed and her head sank into the pillow. She couldn’t help it.

  She felt Grey’s arms around her. She couldn’t help that either.

  Von Richter didn’t come that night. A major operation, Schneider told her when he called. Claire spent the night staring at the dark outline of buildings and the street below. A major operation against who, she wondered. She woke the next morning w
ith a churning stomach. Throwing off her blankets, she dressed and left the hotel.

  On the watch for Odette, Claire took a long walk that ended at parc Monceau. A heavy-set man in a long coat trailed her the whole distance. He moved like a bull, confident, his attention focused ahead, and tossed a half-smoked cigarette onto the ground without a thought. Only Gestapo would waste precious tobacco that way. She threw bread crumbs to the birds and went back to her room to brood.

  Schneider knocked on her door that afternoon. Averting his eyes from her thin silk robe, he spoke. “The Sturmbannführer will take you to the opera tonight. He asked if there was anything you needed.”

  Claire could feel the disdain radiating from the lieutenant. She let her robe slip open an inch. “Please give the Sturmbannführer my thanks. I require a new opera dress. And hat. And gloves.”

  The afternoon was spent on les Champs. Schneider bought the dress, midnight blue with a nipped waist and a thin deep vee with gathers over the breast. A matching hat tipped forward on her forehead, topped with a silver feather. She decided against gloves but required a fur stole.

  If von Richter was going to make her wait, he should know he would pay.

  Schneider doled out the money, but his eyes burned. Claire slid her hand down his arm and smiled as he picked up the wrapped boxes. He walked two paces in front of her back to the hotel.

  That evening, a driver dropped von Richter and Claire in front of the Opéra Garnier next to a wooden pole bristling with German signs. Von Richter took her arm, cutting through the crowd toward the theater entrance.

  He examined the women hanging on to milling officers, then glanced down at Claire’s dress. “You did well today.”

  “All for you.” She ran her fingers over the diamonds. “Consider it a gift for you to unwrap.”

  They passed beneath stone arches and entered the foyer. An usher led them up a glittering marble staircase. Claire stared as they stepped into a box overlooking the auditorium. They were on the second level; there was one more above to the high-domed ceiling. The walls were covered in gold, the stage impossibly far away.

  “You like it?” von Richter said as they settled into red velvet seats in the front.

  “It’s spectacular.” The awe in her voice was real.

  He touched the diamonds nestled between her breasts and let his fingers slide down to her thighs. “Tell me this is why you came to Paris.”

  The smile froze on her face. She would have come here with Grey. She’d have worn a flower in her dress lapel, something simple and refined, chosen by Madame Palain. It felt as though the world had split in two. The Paris she dreamed of. And what was. She pressed against von Richter. “This is why I came to Paris.”

  The seats filled in around them, then the floor below. German men in uniforms and business suits. The suits weren’t less dangerous, just more discreet. Some of the women were French, judging by their look. A few sturdier women, their expressions all business, Claire pegged to be German.

  The room dimmed, lit only by a giant chandelier hanging from a painted dome and a circle of glowing lights. A burst of sound, with the trill of violins crashing over a low rolling bass. The curtain rose, revealing the dark timbers of a building, a woman tending the fire burning inside. A warrior limped in and began to sing in German to the woman.

  “What is happening?” Claire asked von Richter.

  He turned from his survey of the crowd and ran his hand over her thigh. “Siegmund. Kinky fellow. Full of brotherly love.”

  At intermission, they joined the crowd from the upper boxes in the Grand Foyer, a long hall with glossy marble floors, painted ceilings and heavy chandeliers.

  “Sturmbannführer von Richter,” a voice called out and a group of officers approached.

  A server in a white coat offered glasses of champagne on a silver tray. He leaned into Claire as he handed her a flute. “A friend awaits you.”

  “Where?” Claire said under her breath.

  He tilted his head toward a side door. “Go left.”

  “I need to powder my nose. Don’t forget me,” Claire said to von Richter with a wink. He nodded and turned to the officers.

  The door opened into a long hall. Claire passed by two servers loaded down with trays, then paused, a glance back, then descended a long set of stairs. The air turned chill and damp. The walls were heavy stone, marked with writing, and cold under her hand. She shivered as the stairs ended at a small room, the far side shrouded in darkness.

  “Bonsoir, Evelyn.” Odette stepped from the gloom.

  “You took your sweet time to contact me, Danielle.”

  “You must leave Paris,” Odette said. “While you still can.”

  “Didn’t you look at my message? You have to figure out those codes, what they mean.”

  Odette shook her head impatiently. “Information is being leaked to the SS. We will find and plug that leak. But right now, we cannot risk your knowledge of us getting to the Nazis. You must go.”

  “I’m inside the Ritz, Odette. Where you wanted me to be. What I passed to you is just a taste.”

  “Your Nazi, von Richter, is Sicherheitsdienst. Nazi intelligence. He points, the Gestapo kills. You will be forced to choose between Grey and a man who holds your life in his hand. You will compromise us all with him.”

  “Grey could be on a list. Or others. I have to take the chance.”

  “Christophe won’t allow you to proceed,” Odette said.

  “Grey needs your help. I am offering you a real chance. You are going to walk away from that and turn your fight against me?” Claire fought the urge to shake her.

  “They will stop you.”

  Claire turned back toward the stairs.

  Odette’s voice echoed off the stone walls. “You endanger everyone you know, everyone you touch. This is your warning. Your only warning. If you don’t leave now, you are on your own, you understand?”

  The sheets tangled around Claire’s legs as she traced lines on von Richter’s bare back with the soft tip of her silk stocking. He leaned off the side of his bed, pouring a glass of scotch from a half-empty bottle.

  Claire felt as though she were made from glass. Her heartache bled through to her skin. It was good von Richter was damn drunk.

  “You’ve gone too quiet. Entertain me,” he said.

  Claire crawled onto his back, wrapping the stocking around them both. “I was wondering, Alby, how you got to be here.”

  He took a long drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I told you long ago. There is a thing about this town and the women.”

  Claire took the glass from his hand and drank. “You’re too handsome to need a uniform, Alby. And rich. They would spread their legs for you anyway. Why this?” She gestured at his uniform crumpled on the floor.

  He frowned, took back the glass, refilled and drank again. “I cared nothing for Hitler’s party. They are too serious, too sacrificing. But what could I do? I was going to get pulled in one way or another. In Germany, one must participate.” With an arm, he swept her off his back and rolled over to face her. He raised his glass to her. “This way I came to Paris. My dirty factories are chugging along in Saxony and churning out money, without me.” He leaned in to kiss her. “Like you, I came here for pleasure.”

  “What happened to your partner, Merkel? Is he stuck in the factories?”

  He shrugged and dropped the empty glass. The heavy crystal thudded as it hit the carpet. “Come to find out, his grandfather was a Jew.”

  Claire’s stomach turned. She forced a smile and pushed him onto his back, straddling him, then reached for the bottle. She welcomed the burn that slid down her throat like a flaming bomb. Better to feel that than the chill that cramped her chest. You don’t get to kill Grey too, she told him silently. She slid her hand between his legs.

  When the empty bottle lay abandoned on the floor and von Richter’s heavy snore filled the room, Claire slipped from the bed and padded silently toward his study. Closing
the door softly behind her, she lit a candle and moved toward the desk. The night outside was black, the moon a sliver. She had time.

  The night passed with Claire examining every paper in the study for any indication of Grey. She gave up as traffic began to flow outside the window. Every honk, every rumble, made her heart race. She crawled in bed, her nerves brittle.

  The ring of the phone jangled too loud in the sunlit room. Von Richter moaned and rolled over beside her. A mumbled German curse and he reached for the receiver. “Of course. Come by at 9:00. We will talk.” Dropping the receiver in place, he rolled from bed. “Duty calls. Get out now, my luscious schlampe.”

  Claire only stretched, curving her body toward him. She wasn’t going anywhere without seeing what this was about. “You smell like a dead bum, mein Sturmbannführer. Let me bathe you.”

  He threw her dress at her and jerked on his pants. “You are leaving. Dressed or not. Your decision.”

  A theatrical sigh and Claire reached for a stocking. She was dressed and at the entry when the door reverberated with a light knock. Glancing back, she saw von Richter bent over the bed slipping on his boots. He hadn’t heard.

  “Go.” He strode into the bathroom. Water splashed in the sink.

  Claire reached for the knob.

  The Comte de Vogüé stood in the doorway, his eyes flicked open wide.

  A gasp escaped her mouth. She heard von Richter walk in the room. “Entrez,” she said.

  He examined her, a soft smile, and he entered.

  Von Richter offered the Comte a tight smile. “Good morning.”

  “We haven’t been introduced,” the Comte said, his eyes boring into Claire.

  “Comte de Vogüé, this is Madame Badeau.” Von Richter opened the door wide for her to leave.

  Her gaze was glued to the Comte’s face.

  “Enchante.” He reached for her hand and held it tight as he brushed his lips against her skin.