Three Hours in Paris by Cara Black

Author:Cara Black
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction
Publisher: Soho Press
Published: 2020-01-26T22:00:26+00:00

Part III

Sunday, June 23, 1940 | 4:00 p.m.

Sunday, June 23, 1940

Place Pigalle, Paris | 4:00 p.m. Paris Time

As Kate walked the peach frock rustled over her champagne silk chemise. Her new look, styled by Gilberte, earned her glances from the café terrace at Place Pigalle. Her hair was swept back in a crocheted snood topped with a bow like Ginger Rogers, and she wore round sunglasses and red lipstick. She almost felt French—the Guerlain Gilberte had dabbed behind her ears helped.

Believe. As long as she didn’t open her mouth, she’d pass.

Blend in, don’t stand out, Stepney had told her.

In the red-light district of Pigalle, she fit right in.

Alert, she walked into le Mouton and approached the zinc counter. On the walls were framed photos of prizefighters and a map of Corsica.

“What can I get you, mademoiselle?” asked the barman, thick black hair oiled back and gold crucifix around his neck.

Gilberte had told her most in the nightlife milieu were part of the Guerini brothers’ gang, that the Corsican gangs from Marseilles infested Pigalle.

Keep it simple.

She smiled. “Dédé.”

The barman eyed her. His gaze rested on her hips. “Who’s asking?”

“Gilberte sent me.”

The barman slapped a card on the counter: Club le Select.

Hadn’t Gilbette said she was supposed to wait fifteen minutes?

“But I thought . . .”

“Plans change.”

She felt a knot form in her stomach. Had something gone wrong already? Keep moving, something told her. “Merci.”

Club le Select turned out to be two doors down, and Dédé in the cellar.

“This better be good.” Dédé, a short squat man, was heaving beer barrels down the steps into the dim cellar. Curly chest hair peeked from under his sweat-stained undershirt. “Got something for me?”

She showed him Gilberte’s pistol. Leaned close enough to whisper in his ear. “I need radio contact with London. Consider this a trade.”

He sucked in his breath. “That’s hard. Takes time.”

“Dédé,” someone called. “Hurry up.”

“No guns here. Take it with you.”

“Gilberte said you knew a place to stay.”

He shrugged. “The cheese shop on rue des Martyrs. Tell Lily I sent you.”

“Look, I need to get a message to London.”

“Someone might know how, I’ll ask around. Now leave.” He gestured her up the beer-reeking stone steps and out the open back door.

“Why would Dédé send you here?”

Lily, if that was her real name, shook her head. In the closed cheese shop she leaned over the counter under a map of France with all its cheeses by region. A cheese for each day of the year, Dafydd would have said, and more.

“I’ve got kids. My parents. A sergeant’s billeted on the top floor. You can’t stay here.”

Dejected, Kate didn’t feel any sense of surprise—it was too dangerous for her to stay in Paris, dangerous to anyone who helped her. Through the window she saw a soldier in a feldgrau uniform walk by, then knock on the door.

“He lives upstairs,” said Lily. “Go.” She shoved a wedge of Gruyère into Kate’s hand and saw her to the door.

“Merci, madame,” said Kate, controlling her nerves as she ducked past the sergeant standing in the door.

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