“Oh, that. It’s a scrap I found in a book.” She tried to inject amusement into her voice. “You wouldn’t believe what people use as bookmarks.”
Wattenberg glanced at the open book on the floor. The stack beside it.
No, no, no. But her stupid brain froze out all ideas, all inspiration.
The officer’s long fingers reached for the top book. Riffled the pages. Plucked out a note.
It was over.
Lucie stood in the center bay with bookshelves blocking her routes to the front door and the back door, and an armed German officer in her way.
She was Odette, the swan, her path to freedom so close, now lost. Well then, like Odette, she would die gracefully, and a curious and sad freedom filled her heart.
Wattenberg stretched up to his imposing height, and he turned to her, the note raised. If only her fire had blazed as hot as his eyes did. “What is this?”
Lucie blinked. “A bookmark?”
Hobnailed boots clomped up to her, and gray eyes smoked. “It is a news article, written in pencil, but it is wrong. It says the Germans are losing in Russia and in Libya. Such lies could only come from the English, the BBC.”
A transcribed broadcast meant for a resistance newspaper, but she put on an alarmed expression. “What a strange thing to use for a bookmark.”
Wattenberg brandished the paper in her face. “It is from a terrorist, and you know it.”
Righteous indignation came naturally. “I didn’t put it there. And I certainly didn’t write it.”
He scrunched up his mouth and shook his head. “I thought you were a good woman. But you—you fooled me.”
Lucie held her chin high and her voice steady, although her insides writhed. “I have done nothing wrong.”
“I helped you. And this is how you pay me?” His eyes burned with the fire of a lover spurned, a man betrayed, even though she’d never once given him reason to hope.
“I must call the police.” His mouth took a grim set, and he pulled his pistol from his holster.
It was her turn to have no reason to hope.
From a discreet distance, Paul watched as Maurice Boucheron gave a lengthy description of how the motorized crane worked. The policeman had taken few notes and kept glancing at his watch.
Paul had drummed up as many witnesses as he could to drag out the investigation and to show himself a concerned employer cooperative with the police. From what he could tell, the police saw Lafarge’s death as a routine, if regrettable, industrial accident.
He sneaked a glance at his watch, not wanting to look impatient—17:15. He needed to leave the factory no later than eighteen hours to meet Madame Coudray at the station and catch the train to Orléans at nineteen hours. But every minute he kept the police away from Madame Lafarge gave him a minute’s head start.
Somehow he had to call Lucie. Adding a stop at Green Leaf Books would take time he couldn’t spare.
The policeman thanked Boucheron, joined his colleague a few feet away, and the two men came to Paul.
The senior of the policemen tucked a notepad in his jacket. “We are finished for now. We will let you know our findings.”
“Thank you.” Paul searched for signs of suspicion, but theman’s expression revealed nothing. “I hope my men were cooperative.”
“Very. Thank you, monsieur.” The policemen departed.
They passed Col. Gerhard Schiller, who frowned at their backs.
Paul stifled a groan. Not today of all days.
“Good afternoon.” Schiller pointed with his thumb over his shoulder. “What happened?”
“A man fell in front of a moving crane and was killed. I planned to notify your office in the morning.” Paul prayed Schiller wouldn’t ask the man’s name, which he might recognize from the investigation after Gilbert Foulon’s arrest.
