“Listen, pal, I think the man will be good for Germany.”
“What? Have you read his book, Mein Kampf? The man is nuts. Nuts!”
Another man spoke while lighting a cigarette for one of the women, who leaned forward. “Thanks, Frank.” She turned from the one who flipped the lighter top with a “You’re welcome” and offered her own opinion. “Look, don’t you think it’d be a good idea if we all just shut up and let the guy do his job for a while? I agree his ways are strange—all those guys in brown shirts are a bit creepy—but he’s brought a lot of hope to the German people. His party was at the bottom of the heap, and now it’s second in the polls. Just give him a chance!” She inhaled deeply and was about to continue, when another man leaned into the conversation.
“Give him a chance? Who knows what might happen. If you ask me—”
“Which we weren’t, Brad.”
Brad held up his hand for emphasis, as everyone laughed at the interruption. “I said, if you ask me, it’s trouble down the line. Real trouble.”
And so the conversation went on, until the one named Frank stood up. “Am I the only one going to work today?”
The group laughed, beating on the table with their palms, creating such noise that other patrons shook their heads and turned back to their breakfast, perhaps opening a newspaper in front of them with a snap that might have been audible if the Americans had not been so noisy.
“So, what is it today, Frank, an hour’s shut-eye and then a thousand words by lunchtime to keep the Trib happy, followed by a Pernod for a job well done?”
Standing, Frank addressed the group, his hands resting on the back of his chair. “No rich old man to keep me in clover in sunny Paree. See y’all back here tonight.” He scanned the faces. “Martha? Stu? Brad?”
Voices agreed in unison and then, as Frank left, the conversation turned to other matters, and it dawned on Maisie that this was not an early breakfast for the group but the tail end of a night out. Was this the sort of life Priscilla imagined for her? And if this was the life she had missed—well, would she really miss it if it did pass her by?
“Café au lait.” The waiter stood in front of Maisie.
“Ah, merci beaucoup.” Maisie smiled, picking up the large cup, the blend of freshly ground coffee and hot milk already teasing her to taste the scalding beverage. She blew across the surface, causing a film of foam to push back against the cup, and sipped slowly. More memories surged forth, of a leave in Rouen, of dinner with Simon. Maisie smiled. There were good memories along with the bad; indeed, she knew some people who thought the war brought out the best in them and almost hankered for those days of camaraderie, of purpose. Maisie bore no such desire and, as she scanned the faces around her, reflected on her fortune and the man who had nurtured her educational and professional success. Oh, Maurice, what is going on? She finished her coffee, her thoughts on plans for today and tomorrow and then the continuation of her journey.
MAISIE AND MAURICE took breakfast in the hotel dining room. It was a light, airy room, a former courtyard that now had a high ceiling of glass panes that gave the impression of being in a grand Regency orangery, the morning light casting shadows down upon the flagstone floor and dancing upon fountains embedded in the rough stone wall. Ivy grew up and across the walls, while green rubbery trees planted in large rough terra-cotta pots stood in the four corners. The tables were each clad in a white damask cloth topped with a delicate posy of flowers arranged in a small glass jar. The cast-iron chairs were more comfortable than they seemed at first. Maisie ensured that Maurice was seated before taking her place opposite him. A waiter brought a basket of small fresh warm baguettes, croissants, and brioches, then left, and returned with a silver pot of fresh strong coffee and a matching jug of hot frothy milk.
“Merci beaucoup.” Maurice spoke French with the accent of a Parisian.
Maisie smiled as Maurice indicated that she should help herself first. She took a croissant, which she spread with butter and jam. Maurice tore off a piece of baguette, spread it with jam, and dipped it in the large cup of black coffee he had poured for himself. Maisie helped herself to milk, which she added to the coffee Maurice had poured for her.
“So: your agenda for today, Maisie?”
“I think I should ask you, Maurice. After all, you are the one with a social circle here.”
Maurice smiled, dipped more baguette into his coffee, and outlined his plans. “Let us walk for a while. Paris is perfect in September, my favorite time. Then we have lunch at noon, which I believe will continue for several hours. My old friends Docteur Stéphane Gabin and Docteur Jean Balmain will join us; both are still teaching at the Sorbonne—did you know that?”
“I would have thought they were retired by now.” Maisie had met the two men many years earlier, when they had visited Maurice during her apprenticeship.
“And they are anxious to see you too.”
“Me?”
Maurice looked up, wiping a flake of bread crust from his chin. “The first meeting was brief, but you are held in high esteem by both gentlemen. They naturally want to know how you are.”
“I see.” Maisie paused. “Well, I will join you for lunch, Maurice, but perhaps not for the après-midi conversation. I have to visit two places this afternoon: one is the hotel where Ralph Lawton stayed while in Paris, and the other is a club he visited. I found a box of matches among his belongings and want to see what it’s like.”
“If it is still there.”
Maisie sipped her coffee. “Of course, if it’s still there.”
THE WALK MAURICE had proposed was comfortable if quiet, though Maisie remained vigilant. It was Maurice who had taught her to observe the truth revealed in the movement and position of the body, and he taught her to be attentive and curious about words chosen, instructing her in the ways in which just one seemingly insignificant comment could provide the key to a secret tightly held. She had learned in her apprenticeship that even people with lips firmly sealed would speak volumes in complete ignorance of the clues they allowed to escape. It is as if we are playing chess, thought Maisie, as she strolled beside Maurice, careful that her step gave away nothing, as far as she knew. And she kept the conversation light, knowing that Maurice would detect her avoidance. But she could take no chances. She had already decided not to ask questions regarding her recollection of their conversation about the Everdens in the library almost sixteen years ago. There could well be a simple explanation, but Maisie knew it was best to keep her cards very close—indeed, so close she would be the last person to show her hand. Or so she hoped.
LUNCH PASSED IN easy conversation, conducted in a mix of French and English with everyone using words from their own language when there was no easy translation. Maisie quickly regained confidence in French, which she had studied with Maurice in those early days and then again at Girton. Talk went back and forth in such a way that an observer might have been reminded of a tennis game on a summer’s day, played not for a wager, or particularly to win, but for the pleasure of connection. Certain subjects caused voices to become tense; for Stéphane to emphasize a point with his jutting lower lip and hands held open; for Maurice to draw back, which was always a sign that he was about to strike with an incisive and well-timed point. Maisie smiled, for the scene might have been one an artist would choose, the men looking as Frenchmen of a certain age were expected to look, enjoying the company of a young woman who was clearly not French but part of the group.
A green salad was served, followed by lamb cutlets cooked to perfection. Red wine flowed, and the talk continued back and forth. The success of Adolf Hitler’s party in the September elections took up a good portion of the exchange, with opinions that were deeper but mirrored those of the American group. Then there was speculation about the airship, the R-101, that would arrive in France in just a week or so, en route for India. India, of all places; one could fly to India on a dirigible!
As they sat in the restaurant, a particular venue long f
avored by the three men, Maisie shivered and looked away from the group as conversation moved to who was doing what now and, inevitably for men of their years, who had passed away. Two waiters ran between tables draped in checked tablecloths. The walls were painted in an old cream-colored paint, now smoke-stained and covered with posters advertising events long past. Music was playing in the background and double doors opened onto the street for fresh air to enter, though there were no tables on the pavement. As she surveyed the room, she felt she was being watched and turned to the corner of the restaurant, closer to the door. Insufficient light prevented her from gaining a view of the solitary diner there, so, not wanting to peer, she turned back to the men and quickly rejoined the conversation, which this time was about the economy. She looked at her watch, squinting to see the time.
“I’m terribly sorry, gentlemen, but I really must leave you now. I have work to do this afternoon.”
Jean and Stéphane dabbed at their mouths with table napkins as Maisie reached for her document case, which was on the floor at her feet.
“Ah, Mademoiselle Dobbs, must you go? It has been such a pleasure.”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Gabin. My work calls.”
Jean smiled. “It is a fait accompli, as I think you might say.”
They all laughed together. Maurice remained seated as Maisie turned to him. “I trust you won’t be out late, Maurice?” More laughter as Maurice inclined his head and smiled. Maisie leaned toward Stéphane and Jean, and exchanged kisses into the air on each side of the men’s faces. She squeezed Maurice’s shoulder and he pressed her hand with his own. “Later.”
“Yes, later. Take care, Maisie.”
“Of course.” She left the restaurant, walked quickly along a side street until she reached the main thoroughfare, and turned left.
It was as she rounded the corner that Maisie had the distinct feeling that she was being followed and turned to look. The sensation was so strong, so apparent, that she quickly darted into an alley leading to a courtyard, pressing herself against the shadowed wall to avoid detection, and glanced sideways toward the street, waiting.
A tall man hurried past, placing a hat on his head as he walked and looking back and forth along the street. He was in the restaurant, watching me. Maisie continued to wait, then looked toward the back of the courtyard, where there was another alleyway. Moving into the light, Maisie pulled a Baedecker guide from her case and flicked through the pages to get her bearings. She moved silently across the cobblestones and out into the alley, looking both ways before stepping out. Once out on the street again, she walked briskly in the direction of the métro. She looked at her watch, thinking quickly. Without doubt, she was being followed. But by whom? And what of Maurice? He was always so aware, so in tune with his environment; would he not have sensed the man in the shadows of the restaurant? Maisie frowned as beads of perspiration peppered her brow, and the wound she thought was healing began to nip at her again. She had pressed the attempts on her life to the back of her mind, feeling safe so far away, across the Channel.
The man following her had moved quickly, his body sharp and almost feline as he looked back and forth and ran across the street, out of her view. Maisie closed her eyes briefly, remembering the man at Goodge Street station who had rushed toward the curb…. No, it’s not him. It’s someone else. She turned to face the traffic and, seeing a taxi-cab approaching, lifted her arm. A motor car suddenly seemed a safer choice than walking. The taxi-cab screeched to a halt, and Maisie clambered inside.
“Montmartre, s’il vous plaît. L’hôtel Adrienne.”
The driver nodded sharply and Maisie leaned back into the seat, closed her eyes, and tried to empty her mind. She thought again of Madeleine Hartnell: “There are two who walk with you.” I hope so. I do hope so. Maisie opened her eyes and looked out of the window as the taxi-cab made its way through narrow streets and then bumped across ancient cobblestones and stopped outside the Hotel Adrienne. Feeling alone and vulnerable, she pulled up her collar against a faint breeze that another person might not have noticed.
“ATTENTION. ATTENTION, S’IL vous plaît.” Maisie stood alongside the deserted polished dark wooden counter and called out for assistance. An old man shuffled through the door that led to the back of the hotel. He was dressed in dark trousers and a white shirt, with a small bow tie and armbands that prevented the long sleeves from bunching up around his cuffs.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle.” He smiled broadly, placed his hands on the counter side by side, and spoke in English. “How may I be of service to you?”
Maisie was surprised but did not question how he had ascertained that she was not French. Probably her countenance and dress revealed more about her than she would have liked.
“Monsieur, a dear friend of mine was a guest here during the war, and I hoped you might still have a record of his visit. I am going to his grave next week and want very much to visit the places where he knew some joy before he was killed. Can you help me?”
“It is a pilgrimage, no?”
Maisie dipped her head. “Yes. It is a pilgrimage.”
The man came to the front of the counter and took both of her hands in his, smiling kindly. “Yes, there are some who come, like you, and others who were here and survived the crisis. Do you know when your friend visited?”
Maisie pulled her hand from the man’s grasp and reached inside her document case. She held out a small receipt, now brown around the edges, that she had found tucked inside Ralph Lawton’s journal.
The man pulled a pair of half-moon spectacles from his waistcoat, placed them on his nose, and studied the paper. “Ah, bon.” He turned to Maisie. “It is I myself who issued the receipt.” As tears welled up in the corners of his eyes, he removed his spectacles and pressed the thumb and finger of his right hand to the bridge of his nose. “Excusez-moi, mademoiselle. I saw so many: our own boys, the English and Scottish, the Canadians, the Americans, the Australians. They all came to Paris for a day or two of this or that.” He smiled. “You know, the girls….” Maisie nodded and smiled. “And then they were gone.” He snapped his fingers. “Gone.”
“Can you tell me if my friend came alone to the hotel?”
The man frowned, turning. “Un moment. I will have to find the book.”
He shuffled into the office, where Maisie could hear doors being opened and closed, papers falling to the ground, and the odd expletive from the hotel owner. Eventually he returned, holding a large faded leather-bound ledger in both hands while blowing dust from the top and sides.
“Voilà! I have found the book. Now, let me see.” He placed the ledger on the counter and flipped through the pages, commenting occasionally. “Ah, a regular there, an Irish boy. He visited two years ago with his children and wife.” He shook his head. “If she knew!” The pages turned, all the time with added commentary, about those who died, those who came back, those who had caused trouble. “So many, but I remember, I remember.”
Maisie rested her elbow on the counter and waited, occasionally waving her hand in the air as a small cloud of dust wafted toward her.
“Ah! Good. It is found.” He pushed the ledger in front of Maisie, and they leaned over the entry together. “Yes, he is here. He came with his friend.” The man put the spectacles on his nose once again, squinted, and leaned closer to the page. “But the man cannot write!”
“No, he can’t.” Maisie’s shoulders dropped as she read Ralph Lawton’s signature clearly, followed by another that was barely a scrawl. It could have been a man or a woman’s hand, a thought that caused Maisie to turn to the hotel owner. “How do you know it is a man’s handwriting?”
His bottom lip jutted out in the manner that Stéphane had shown only an hour earlier, and he held out his upturned palms for emphasis. “It is the burden of my job, mademoiselle, to know handwriting as I am seeing it all the time.” He tapped the ledger. “This is the signature of a man.”
Maisie opened her mouth to ask another question but stopped
when the man touched her arm. “In a time of war, we do not see, we do not ask. They may be dead in a week. We see only the smile, we give the smile in return, and we collect the francs. That is war.”
She smiled and reached for the receipt, which had been left on the counter, and returned it to her document case. “You have been most kind, Monsieur…”
“Vernier. My name is André Vernier.” He executed a short bow in front of her. “It is a pleasure, mademoiselle. Would you care to see the room?”
“Thank you, Monsieur Vernier. It is enough to have seen your hotel.” Maisie hesitated, then reached into her case again. “Can you tell me if this club is still in Montmartre?” She held out the matchbox.
Monsieur Vernier took the box, bringing it closer to his nose to see the inscription.
“Café Druk. Yes, yes. And it is still owned by the Indochinoise.” He smiled and handed back the matches.
“What is it?”
“Now I am sure your friend was here with a man.” Vernier was still grinning.
“Why?”
“Because, mademoiselle, the Café Druk is for garçons, for men.”
Maisie nodded. “I see.”
“Now let me direct you.” Vernier guided Maisie to the street outside. Looking along the street, he held out his arm and proceeded to show her how to find Café Druk. “It will take ten minutes only if you are walking very slowly.”
They bid au revoir, the man claiming a kiss on each cheek before he allowed Maisie to leave. She was certain that the man with Ralph during his leave in Paris was Jeremy Hazleton but knew that jumping to such conclusions was unwise, for it closed the mind to other possibilities. One must consider facts as if one has discovered jewels, each gem laid out on a plain surface, a clear mind, and then considered carefully before being arranged in a set.