Life Is Short and Then You Die

by Kelley Armstrong

  It wasn’t until I stood in the dining room, reciting in my head all the instructions I’d received from Albertine regarding proper serving procedure, that I finally understood Rabbit’s look. I hadn’t seen the family at breakfast or lunch, but now they entered and took their seats, less aware of my presence than they’d have been of a scratch on the furniture. André Lagarde sat at the head of the table with his wife, Suzanne, to one side, and their daughter, Julie, to the other; beside Madame Lagarde was Gustave—their son.

  Raffish and debonair, with tanned skin and a toothpaste ad smile, Gustave Lagarde drew the eye without trying. He was probably nineteen or twenty, and I couldn’t stop staring at his broad shoulders and sturdy build, at the casual, unconcerned way with which he moved. I was still staring when they were joined by a fifth diner—another young man—and my back went rigid at his German military uniform.

  Blond and square-jawed, he projected a cockiness that outdid even Gustave’s. The Lagardes addressed him as Konrad, their voices light and warm, unfazed by his appearance—even as he flaunted the swastika on his arm, the pins and patches that marked him as an enemy of France. As he took his seat beside Julie, a look passed between them that practically vibrated with affection, and my head spun.

  And then the click of boots sounded against a hard floor, and another man swept into the room. He wasn’t tall or fiendish-looking, he didn’t have pointed teeth or clawed fingers or green skin or bat wings. He was nothing like any of the ways I’d seen him in my nightmares for the past two years … and yet I knew, all the way to my ice-cold center, that I was in the presence of Gerhard Volz.

  He greeted his hosts warmly, accepted a glass of white wine, smiled from ear to ear. I felt as if I were floating, vibrating, my blood frigid one second and too hot for my skin the next.

  Moving around the table in a trance, I ladled soup and portioned gougères, I swapped clean dishes for dirty ones, I topped off glasses of wine or water, and every time I came close to Volz, my hand itched, the table gleaming with sharp silver that called my name.

  By the time the meal ended, and I was back in the kitchen, I was dizzy and sick to my stomach. Images revolved in my mind like a penny arcade: Volz shooting my father, Volz toasting the health of the Lagarde family; Volz leading his Nazis in the slaughter of my countrymen; Volz eating sole meunière and tarte tatin and drinking Chablis like a lord of the manor. My hands shook as I filled the sink with scalding water, but before I could punish myself by reaching into it up to my elbows, Rabbit stopped me.

  “Here.” He shoved a glass into my hand. It was cognac, and I hesitated for only a second before downing it in one bracing, numbing mouthful. “I’m sorry.”

  He didn’t know my history with Volz, and I wasn’t going to share it. Let him think my distress resulted from having to wait hand and foot on a German. “So that’s him.”

  “That’s him. He’s hard to miss when he’s in the village.”

  “And the younger one? Konrad?”

  “Konrad Scheller, Obersoldat in the Führer’s army. I believe he met Mademoiselle Julie at a dance in Beaune this winter.”

  Digesting this information, I watched steam rise from the water in the sink. “I knew the family had a son. I didn’t realize he was…”

  “Living at the chateau?”

  “Not in the army.” I looked over at him. “How many of the men and boys that left the staff to serve France were arrested by Colonel Volz and Obersoldat Scheller?”

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he poured more cognac into my glass. “Drink up.”

  * * *

  After dinner, we went over the menus for the next day; and by the time I finally departed Chateau d’Armont, the sun was setting. My thighs burned with the strain of pedaling fast enough to reach Garance before dusk settled over the countryside, my mood as black as the coming night. Once, my father said he would have gladly fought for France, if it hadn’t meant the risk of leaving me an orphan. And now here I was anyway.

  After I reached the village, partway back to the inn, I passed a bar, the sour reek of cheap beer carrying to me through windows open to the night air. The door was shabby, and the sign above it was weathered and cracked, belying its lovely name—La Belle Fontaine. I paused, watching for a moment, listening to murmured conversations and the soft lull of music, feeling an impulse to do something.

  Georges Renard was waiting for me when I reached the inn, perhaps having heard my wheels rattling over the ruined cobblestones, and I started when he emerged from the doorway—suddenly and silently—moving into my path.

  “Any trouble finding the Chateau d’Armont?” His tone was pleasant, but his eyes assessed the bicycle, checking to see if I’d damaged it. He wore a beard, his head covered by a cap I’d seen both that morning and the night before. He looked like a professor—not a fighter, and certainly not a traitor.

  But then again, I was quickly learning how little I knew about how things looked.

  Making a joke of it, I returned, “No, it was pretty easy to see from the road.”

  “And the Lagardes? They were kind to you?” He seemed genuinely concerned, and I decided it was all right to be honest.

  “They didn’t take much notice of me. I spent my day with Eugène, the chef. He was kind.”

  “Did you compliment his cooking?” The man’s tone was light, but his eye twinkled mischievously. When I nodded, he nodded back. “Eugène loves anyone who loves his food.”

  He took the bicycle from me with a cheerful good night, and I waited until he was gone before ducking into the front room. On the desk, beside the guest register, stood a vase of wilting roses. Picking the healthiest-looking one, I hurried back out into the night.

  I kept my mind blank for the short return trip to La Belle Fontaine, not wanting to overthink or reconsider what I meant to do. Boldly, I marched right in through the front door of the bar, the air thick with alcohol and smoke in a way that made me homesick for Le Chevalier.

  A woman with a stiff blond coiffure stopped me almost immediately. “You sure you’re old enough to be in here, love?” Her tone was at once disapproving and coquettish, and she gave me an easy smile.

  “I … I have a gift. For Josette?”

  Her smile vanished, and she jerked a thumb at some tables in the corner of the room. “That’s her. Knock your socks off.”

  A buxom girl with dark ringlets stood between two tables full of men, telling a story they seemed to find enthralling—or perhaps it was just her they loved. Even from across the room, I felt her magnetism. It was the same kind of pull I’d felt from Gustave Lagarde, except that where he projected arrogance, Josette Brunot radiated warmth. I watched until her story ended, until she’d collected empty mugs and glasses and taken orders for another round, and then I intercepted her at the bar.

  “A gentleman outside told me to give this to you.” I presented the sad dying rose, hoping my unpracticed delivery sounded like nerves.

  “He did, did he?” She took the flower, her fingertips brushing mine deliberately. “You didn’t happen to catch a name off this fellow, did you?”

  “No, he … didn’t give me his name.” I told myself, repeatedly and unsuccessfully, not to look at her breasts. “He, uh, he was wearing a hat.”

  “Well, that certainly narrows it down.” Her response was wry but not mocking. After a beat, Josette sighed, relinquishing the rose to the bar top. “Listen, kid, there’s no need to be coy. I know what I am, and money is money.” Gesturing to the back of the room, she continued. “I live upstairs, with my granddad. He doesn’t get out of bed anymore and usually can’t remember me, but he isn’t bothered when I have company.”

  It took me an embarrassingly long moment to realize what she was implying. My face warm to the tips of my ears, I stammered, “No, I … I really did get that from a man outside! He told me to tell you he was a secret admirer.”

  She evaluated this for a moment. “I can’t decide if I’m flattered or terrified. What’s your name?”<
br />
  “Pierre. My cousin is Lucien, who works at Chateau d’Armont.”

  “Ah. The Lagarde place.” Her lacquered fingertips found the rose again. “We don’t see much of that family here in the village. Too … quaint for them, I think.”

  I wasn’t sure what that meant, but it didn’t sound like a compliment. Recklessly, I ventured, “The chateau is beautiful, but I didn’t care for their guests.”

  Josette’s mouth pressed into a thin smile, and the rose’s stem bent at a fatal angle in her grasp. Her voice soft, she observed, “They’re all our guests, aren’t they? Whether we care for it or not?”

  * * *

  Despite what Rabbit had told me about Volz’s habits, days passed without the man making a single excursion into the village. Instead, he enjoyed Monsieur Lagarde’s company, his books and his wine, took daily strolls on the property, and occasionally went horseback riding. Our continent was at war, and he was on a pleasant vacation.

  Wednesday morning, Albertine announced a change to the preapproved menu for the following afternoon; the family and their guests would be going on an extended ride to tour the vineyards and forage in the countryside, and requested a picnic lunch.

  “They’ll be out of the house for hours,” Rabbit interpreted for me once the housekeeper was far enough away. “I’ll secure you a key to Volz’s room. He may have something among his personal effects that will identify his informant.”

  It sounded dangerous, but I was already becoming desperate, my time running out. The real kitchen boy would be returning on Sunday, whether I’d accomplished my mission or not. Without hesitation, I said I’d do it.

  * * *

  The next day, Volz, the Lagardes, and Obersoldat Scheller rode off into the hills surrounding the chateau, with baskets packed full of cheese, charcuterie, fresh bread, and chilled wine. The second they were out of sight, Rabbit slipped an old key into my hand and told me where the colonel was quartered.

  Unsurprisingly, Volz had the largest and nicest of the guest rooms—a fireplace, a canopied bed, Louis XV furniture, and a sunny, postcard view: A burbling stream, bordered by cowbane and watercress, threaded its way alongside the estate’s manicured flower garden, and the vine-combed hills rose behind it. The quarters contained few personal effects, the colonel’s clothing limited to the interchangeable shirts and pants of military attire, and I turned up nothing in the single suitcase I found beneath the bed.

  One drawer of an ornate desk was locked, and after a thorough search of the rest of the premises, I was convinced that if there was anything to find it would be there. A letter opener, an untwisted wire clip, and a lot of patience were what it took to jimmy the compartment open—and when I saw what I’d found, I drew a breath: Nestled together were a small two-way radio, a notepad filled with neat German scrawl, and a codebook emblazoned with the insignia of the Third Reich.

  My mind raced. I wanted to take the codebook and run all the way back to my aunt and uncle’s tavern, its potential immeasurable. Who knew how many secrets could be learned, how many lives could be saved—how many nations could be freed from Nazi tyranny—with this in the hands of the Maquis?

  But Volz could notice it missing at any time, and then heads would roll. Literally. And the radio … the radio meant he might be able to exchange information with the mole in Garance without ever leaving the exquisite comfort of this guest room. For all I knew, he’d been at it every day this week while I was in the kitchen, mincing shallots for his escargots and melting chocolate for his after-dinner mousse.

  Frustration and dismay brought a helpless ache to my chest. The writing in the notepad was plain, precise—and nonsensical. It was clearly encrypted, and even with the cipher key right there, I feared I wouldn’t have enough time to make head or tail of it.

  The pages of the codebook were crisp and clean, and I took strenuous care not to bend them or leave noticeable smudges; but after fifteen agonizing minutes, I knew the effort was pointless. There was one word, however, that showed up time and time again with repeated corresponding phrases, and after another quarter-hour, I’d cracked it: P-A-S-C-A-L. Pascal tells me … According to Pascal … Pascal says …

  Pascal. Certainly a nom de guerre—like Mercury, my own—used so intercepted messages couldn’t be traced back to their real source. It was a boy’s name. Did that mean it was Georges? Or was Volz clever enough to give Josette a male pseudonym, to further occlude her true identity?

  The clock on the mantel struck three, and my heart jolted, the picnickers due back any minute. Shoving everything into the drawer again, I somehow forced the lock closed with my improvised tools. As I raced for the kitchen, information clicked in my mind like a teletype machine.

  * * *

  “Don’t forget tomorrow is my day off,” Albertine announced the next morning as Rabbit and I were in the middle of reviewing Saturday’s approved menus, “and tonight it shall be dinner for two, only. Mademoiselle Julie is off with Herr Scheller, young Gustave is in Beaune, and Colonel Volz will be in the village. Madame requests something simple, like onion soup, steamed mussels, and perhaps a small filet mignon.”

  Rabbit was practically twitching with fury as Albertine stalked away up the hall again, tearing up yet another preapproved menu. “Something simple,” he repeated hotly in a mocking, nasal undertone. “Just fourteen dishes and, oh, perhaps a small filet mignon!”

  “At least it’s only for two. That can’t take us long.” I was depressed. I’d come to the Occupied Zone to kill a Nazi, and instead I was making haute cuisine for an oblivious couple spared the privations of war.

  “No.” Rabbit was decisive. “Set a mise en place for the soup and prepare the base ingredients for mussels Provençal. Then you take the evening off.”

  “But—”

  “Volz will be in the village,” he pointed out. “Finally. And I’ve worked for Michelin-starred restaurants in Paris and Dijon; I can certainly handle dinner for two on my own!”

  His meaning hit home. I chopped vegetables in record time and was on my bicycle and speeding back to Garance while the sun was still high in the late-afternoon sky.

  When I reached the inn, I grabbed a paperback from a shelf in the front room and stationed myself in the restaurant, waiting. I’d finished two cups of tea by the time Volz finally made his appearance, bursting through the doors with a cadre of young Nazi soldiers—and Josette Brunot hanging on one arm. Slumping in my chair, I pulled my cap over my eyes. They claimed a corner of the room, the colonel demanding a beer list, the group’s conversational German too fast and thick for me to understand. I kept my head down and book up, but Volz never so much as glanced in my direction.

  They were loud and only got louder as the alcohol flowed, demeanors boisterous, verging on quarrelsome. Josette smiled and laughed, but even from across the room, the performance read as forced. At one point, the Germans demanded that Georges join them, and though he demurred, they wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  “This place,” Volz declared, face flushed and eyes shining, “is a dump! Why is your place such a dump, Renard? Why do I love it anyway?”

  “Don’t be so unfair, Colonel,” Josette interposed with careful smoothness. “Monsieur Renard’s restaurant is the most popular in the village.”

  “The food is like something my mother would make. And my mother is dead.” Volz roared with laughter at his own joke, and his flock of swastika-wearing gargoyles laughed with him, everyone making sure the most lethal man at the table felt suitably appreciated. When the Nazi colonel had consumed his share of attention, he rose to his feet. “I would like to drink a toast to my mother! But not with the swill they serve here at the Lilac Dump. Let’s drink the swill at Josette’s dump instead!”

  The German soldiers cheered their agreement, and the entire group stood to leave, preparing to head for La Belle Fontaine. Again Georges demurred. “Regrettably, I cannot. I have to watch the inn. We’re short-staffed these days.”

  “You still have your
wretched cook, don’t you?” Volz rejoined. “It seems you lost the wrong staff! But I’m sure this place can handle a few hours without your presence.”

  Georges ducked his head. “Perhaps so, but—”

  “Renard. Do I have to insist?” The Nazi’s tone was buoyant—with an edge as fine as a knife’s point. This was neither an offer nor a request. “I’m inviting my favorite innkeeper to a drink. Don’t insult me by refusing.”

  A very complicated smile spread across Georges Renard’s face, and the man nodded haltingly. “Very well, then. I’d love to.”

  I wasn’t sure there was any point in following. There would be no private, one-on-one conversation tonight between a Nazi and his contact; and while a teenager might be inconspicuous in the dining room of an inn, I’d stand out like a white sparrow at La Belle Fontaine. And I had other plans, anyway.

  Five minutes after the group left the auberge, I found the door to Georges Renard’s private quarters; ten minutes after they’d left, I managed to spring the lock with a bobby pin and a nail file from the front desk; twenty minutes after, I discovered the loose floorboard beneath the man’s armoire, and the small two-way radio it concealed. Of English design, it was identical to the one my aunt and uncle had hidden in their wine cellar—the fruit of a midnight airdrop by the Allied Forces.

  Twenty-five minutes after Georges had left the inn with Gerhard Volz, I discovered my second German codebook. Wedged deep between the mattress and box spring of the innkeeper’s bed, it was floppy and soft with age and use; inside, the margins were cluttered with notations, particular words circled and phrases underlined. At the top of the very first page, written in cipher text, I found a now-familiar word printed in all capital letters:

  PASCAL.

  * * *