Paris Encore (Zion Covenant) Page 9

  Andre had noticed that much about Daniel Marlow’s widow before, but he had not given her much thought. Perhaps it was the sight of the Russian, Federov, lusting after her like a third-rate museum curator lusts after the Mona Lisa. There was something about this woman, like a rare piece of art, that was out of reach.

  Andre excused himself from the mindless buzz of conversation and moved toward her.

  “Marlow,” said Blackwell. “Marlow? Any relation to Daniel Marlow?”

  “We were married.”

  “I was in Paris with him for a year in 1934 before I left for Ottawa, and I never knew Marlow was married. How long were you married?”

  “Six years.”

  Blackwell counted on his fingers. “You mean he was married . . . ?” There was an accusation of the late Daniel Marlow in the comment. Everyone knew the reputation of the American journalist. He never behaved like a married man. But why bring that up now? Blackwell was a soul entirely without tact.

  Andre sauntered up and patted the journalist on the back. “Well, Blackwell, good to see you back in Paris. Did you just arrive?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did the fresh Canadian air do you some good?”

  “It’s the best air in the world, Colonel Chardon.”

  “Your tuberculosis is better these days, I take it. Very good.”

  Blackwell gaped at Andre. What was he to say? “But I didn’t have tuberculosis.”

  “Whatever it was . . . terrible thing. We all thought you would die. All the same, my congratulations that you are out of the sanitarium, Monsieur.” Andre crowded in beside the speechless Blackwell and kissed the hand of Josephine. “Madame Marlow, we meet again. A pleasure.”

  The others in the group cast concerned glances at Blackwell, bid Madame Marlow adieu, and sauntered off to less contagious parts of the room.

  Andre took her arm and led her away from the stunned Blackwell.

  “That was a slick piece of work.” She smiled as they halted beneath a Polish flag. “No wonder you are a colonel.”

  “He is ridiculous, this British journalist. Ungallant.”

  “It’s all right, Colonel. Blackwell doesn’t shock me. I was aware of my husband’s reputation.”

  “It is difficult to imagine that Monsieur Marlow would have had a reputation when one sees you.”

  “We were apart for a long time.”

  “That is also difficult to imagine. To be apart from you by choice?” His eyes flitted to her throat, her hair, her mouth. “Very difficult.”

  “When I came here two years ago, I intended to divorce him.”

  “And when he saw you again he would not let you go? That I believe. At times it takes a second look, and a man knows he was first blinded by the sun.”

  The wall was at her back. “Why is it that I feel like I’ve just jumped from the frying pan to the fire?”

  “The frying pan?’

  “An old American saying. It means that you are . . . skilled at conversation, Colonel.” She eyed him with doubtful amusement.

  “Just Andre, Madame.”

  “Well then, just Andre.” She pointed to herself. “I will be just Josephine.”

  “No. Josephine the Just, I think . . . or Josephine the Gracious. Or the Beautiful.”

  She laughed—great uproarious laughter, the way American students on the Left Bank laugh when they have consumed too much wine. It embarrassed him.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  The laughter subsided, and she patted him gently on the cheek, the way a sister pats a little brother. “You’re just so good at it; that’s all! And I thought you were such a gloomy person the first time. Then that day in the office. I might as well have had a bag over my head. Now this!”

  Wasn’t that just the picture? Mac watched them from a distance: Josie in the blue dress with her back pressed against the wall . . . the French colonel in his dress uniform and tall boots . . . one hand in his pocket, the other hand touching her hand. The colonel stood close in front of her, like a fraternity man making time with a freshman coed.

  She laughed at something he said. The kind of laugh that made a guy feel as clever as William Powell with Myrna Loy.

  Mac wanted to break the Frenchman’s handsome face. He wanted to thump his chest like Tarzan and hit the clown over the head with a Louis XIV gilt chair.

  “What’s with you?” John Murphy pounded Mac on the back.

  “What do you mean?” Mac snarled and looked away from the too-cozy scene.

  Murphy spotted Josephine and the colonel, then studied Mac. “Oh, I get it.”

  “No, you don’t get it!” Mac controlled his urge to pop Murphy in the kisser for being too nosy and for knowing too much before Mac even said anything about it. “You don’t know nothing! Look, Murphy, just what kind of a louse am I, anyway?” Mac’s hand dove inside his coat pocket and produced a crumpled sheaf of Eva’s letters. “What do I care what Josie Marlow does? Do I think just because Eva’s in England and I’m across the Channel, I can just ditch her and go to trying to corral someone else?”

  “Whoa, easy there, partner,” Murphy kidded. “You’re a rescuer, is what. For ladies in distress you’re the knight—in tweed armor—riding to the rescue!” Then Murphy’s tone grew more serious. “But which one can you see yourself spending the rest of your life with? growing old with?”

  Mac caught sight of his own reflection in a mirror. His tweed suit was wrinkled. His red tie, which he’d owned since college days, was tied like a red rag around the neck of a bulldog. He needed a haircut.

  Sheepishly he replied, “Now that you mention it, Josie always makes me feel like the biggest hick just in from the country. With Eva, well, I can be myself and no worries. . . .”

  “Well, there you go, then. Besides, it’s no crime to admit that Josie Marlow’s ripe as a peach in June for plucking. That French colonel’s got it figured, all right. But Mac . . . she’s a big girl. She can take care of herself.”

  “Ah, it’s just the fancy braid,” Mac countered.

  “Yep. They all go for it. Good thing I married Elisa before all the journalists were out getting fitted for uniforms. ’Course, if it was now, I’d visit Mussolini’s very own tailor if I thought it’d make Elisa look at me. Now . . . who do you feel that way about? Josie or Eva?”

  Mac’s crooked smile emerged from the corners of his mouth to meet in the middle of a wide grin. “Say, Father Murphy, you’re quite a counselor, you are. Confession does a body a heap of good.” He tucked Eva’s letters safely away and patted his coat just to make sure.

  “Good, my son,” Murphy replied solemnly. “Now go and sin no more.”

  9

  For Such a Time As This

  Andre Chardon brought Josie to the Casino de Paris and, with a bribe of fifty francs to the headwaiter, procured a table on the first balcony. He then ordered champagne at a cost that exceeded an entire week of her income. It was obvious to her that he was living on something more than the pay of an army colonel.

  Back home in America, Josephine had been content to crowd into the movie theatre like everyone else for a black-and-white glimpse of Maurice Chevalier. Now here he was in the flesh.

  It had taken the war to bring Chevalier home from Hollywood. Cheeks rosy and lips red in the footlights, his white-straw boater was pulled down over one eye as he sang the most popular song in France. Called “In the Maginot,” it was set to the tune of “La Marseillaise.” It provided a complete picture of the democratic army of France.

  “The colonel was in finance,

  The major was in industry,

  The captain was an insurance man,

  The lieutenant had a grocery.

  The adjutant was an usher at the Bank of France.

  The sergeant was a pastry cook,

  The corporal was a dunce,

  And all the privates had private incomes.”

  Josie smiled at Andre across the small round table as he sipped his champagne. “Everyone in the a
rmy was something before the war,” she said. “What did you do?”

  “I kept myself busy with horses and wine.” He raised his glass to her. “And beautiful women.”

  “Back home we would call that a recipe for poverty.”

  He laughed. “It is not as bad as all that, Madame Marlow . . . Josephine. . . . As a young man I trained as a cavalry officer at Saumur. Thus the horses. My brother, Paul, carries on the tradition.”

  “And the wine?”

  “My family owned vineyards in Bordeaux, which Paul and I inherited.”

  She smiled and thought, Thus the money.

  His gaze moved to her throat, her ear, her cheek, and then lingered on her mouth. “As for beautiful women? I suppose they are also family tradition . . . one which, with your assistance, I may carry on in spite of the war.”

  What could she say to that? “Very smooth, Colonel Chardon? Top of the class, Colonel Chardon?”

  Chevalier belted out his melody as sequined showgirls strutted their stuff around him.

  “D’excellents Français!

  D’excellents soldats . . .

  And all this makes fine Frenchmen,

  Fine soldiers. . . .”

  Josie did not look at Andre. “I suppose you are highly skilled at what you do.”

  “I manage. I am out of practice in some things.” His look warmed her. “Equestrian pursuits, for instance. And I find that my palate is not as sharp as it used to be. As for other matters?” He gestured toward the entertainer, as though the words to the song provided some answer to his final pursuit.

  “Qui marchent au pas;

  Marching in step;

  Ils n’en avaient plus l’habitude;

  They’d got out of the habit, but

  Mais tout comm’ la bicyclett’ . . .

  Like bicycle riding you don’t forget!”

  It occurred to Josie that in the mind of the colonel, she was the bicycle. It was an interesting idea, but it also frightened her. Soldiers were as bad as war correspondents. Shiny medals and brass buttons attracted bullets. She had had enough of that for a lifetime.

  “I am not sure I want to get to know you, Colonel Chardon.”

  “Call me Andre, please.” He seemed undeterred by her frankness. “And then tell me why you feel that way when we know each other so well.”

  “Not so well.”

  “We slept side by side on the train. You know I do not snore. Usually women do not discover such things until it is too late. Even when a husband snores, it is difficult to divorce him in France. There are laws. So, I do not snore, I am rich, and I ride well. What more can you ask?”

  She laughed. “You must have some flaws.”

  The amusement in his eyes faded. There was the look she had seen on the train. The look of a lonely man.

  He nodded curtly. “Many.” He turned to stare at the act. The song ended to thunderous applause. The game was over. What had she said to kill his pursuit so entirely?

  “I should take you home.” He crooked a finger at the waiter and asked for the check.

  The image of the doll jumped to Josie’s mind. She blurted, “Did she like the doll?”

  He looked at her as though she had read some small line in his thoughts. “How do you know . . . ?”

  “I saw it on the train. I assumed you were taking it to someone.”

  He drew a deep breath. “I have a daughter.”

  “And did she like it? A beautiful thing.”

  “She has not seen it. Nor has she ever met me.” He shrugged as though the words had escaped unbidden. “My greatest fault.” An embarrassed smile. He counted out the bills to pay the check and had to count again.

  Josie felt suddenly tender toward him. “I like you much better when you are not trying so hard.”

  “I suppose I am out of practice with beautiful women as well. It has been a long time since I could look at anyone else. . . .” His words trailed off.

  “Anyone else?”

  “The child’s mother. She is dead now. It was hopeless long before she died. And yet I hoped. I noticed you tonight. Beautiful. Aloof. Intelligent. But . . . I have forgotten how the game is played.”

  “Not really. It is just that I prefer honesty to the game. I have had too much of the first and not enough of the other.”

  Andre bit his lip and leaned closer, like a man wanting to share some secret plan. “She is only five, my little girl. Living with her grandfather in Luxembourg.”

  “A beautiful little place.”

  “A dreary life. He is a grim and bitter man.”

  “Well? Have you thought about bringing her to Paris?”

  “I know nothing at all about little girls. Children.”

  What was that in his expression? A plea for help? Josie sensed she was coming near to a dangerous situation. Here was a man who wanted to bring his child into his home, but how could he manage? Was he looking at Josie as some sort of potential nursemaid? Sweet, but no cigar.

  “They are something like puppies. Feed them, love them, teach them manners, and they usually grow up to be quite decent.”

  “I have no experience with puppies either.”

  “You are deprived.”

  The spark returned in the colonel’s eyes. “Do you know about such mysteries?”

  “Puppies. Kittens. Colts. Six brothers and sisters. You name it.”

  “Would you share your advice with me? If perhaps I went to meet the child?”

  She considered his request for a long moment. “Is that why you asked me out?”

  He tucked his chin. “Honestly?”

  “I told you how I feel about honesty.”

  “Well then . . . no. Honestly, you have a beautiful face. I noticed your eyes even when you were wearing your press uniform. But this color blue suits you better. Now I find there was much beneath the khaki that I had not seen before.” He took her hand and lifted her fingers to his lips. “Beneath your tunic I see there is a fountain of maternal instincts waiting to be uncovered.”

  His appreciative gaze made her want to reach for her coat and button up. On the other hand, it had been a long time since any man had looked at her this way. She was enjoying it, but she did not give him the satisfaction of knowing how much.

  “All instincts aside, Andre . . . common sense is what is required here.”

  He sat back and drummed his fingers on the table. “You are right, of course. What do you suggest?”

  “If I were you, I would wrap that beautiful doll for Christmas and make a trip to Luxembourg.”

  “I was considering it.” He frowned down at his hands in thought and then raised his eyes to meet her gaze. “Thank you for saying it. Would you go with me? I may need a friend to hold my hand.”

  Mac felt the presence of danger even before he could see the vague shadows of the two men following him.

  It was a short walk through the darkness from the Ritz Hotel to Hotel Continental, but the list of pedestrian fatalities since the blackout far exceeded the casualties at the front. Paris was entirely without the benefit of streetlamps. Muggings were as common in the City of Lights as they had been during the dark times of Charles Dickens. Every alleyway and narrow space between the close-packed houses and arcades could be a hiding place for a thug. Not even the blue-uniformed gendarmes were immune from being robbed; they traveled in pairs these days.

  So who was on Mac’s trail? He listened for voices but heard only the heavy footfalls of two men. They slowed when he slowed and sped up when he began to walk faster.

  Other shadowy forms slipped past him in the dark. The drunken laughter of a group of revelers echoed across the square and reverberated beneath the portico.

  The footsteps did not stop when Mac turned on Rue de Castiglione and quickened his pace toward his own hotel three blocks away. A cold wind blew up from the Tuileries, carrying on it the dank scent of the Seine and the sewers that emptied into the river in the night.

  He pulled the collar of his topcoat up arou
nd his ears and clutched his keys so they protruded from his fist like spikes. He carried only ten francs in his wallet—hardly worth dying for. But his hard-won clearance papers were worth a fortune on the black market these days. To anyone interested in buying and selling false identities, the papers of an American were certainly worth killing for. There were a number of unidentified bodies fished out of the river every week. They were laid out in the morgue until someone recognized them. They were never found accompanied by their documents.

  Mac wished he had a revolver. A number of men in the press corps carried sidearms just for such occasions. Benny Morris could get anybody any kind of weapon he wanted. It had been foolish for Mac to refuse. He had told Benny that the DeVry camera was enough to shoot. Now Mac would have been glad just to have the DeVry to hit one of these guys over the head. Too late for that now.

  A car roared past on the street, driving too fast in the darkness. Blue light glimmered feebly from the slits in the headlamps. Mac attempted to glimpse the features of the men he was certain would assail him. Bulky silhouettes stood out in momentary relief against the white stone of the building, but he could not make out their faces.

  The Rue de Castiglione was deserted. The voices of the drunks died away behind him. He was still a full block from the corner of Rue de Rivoli but remembered that somewhere along the block was the side entrance of the Continental. But where? He groped for the door like a blind man in unfamiliar surroundings.

  The footsteps quickened, closing the gap. Mac stopped and plastered his back against the hard stone wall. At least he would face them when they jumped. Nobody would club him from behind and dump him, unconscious, to drown in the river!

  “Hey!” he shouted. “I’m ready for you!”

  The footsteps halted abruptly. Silence. Right. It was two men the size of prizefighters.