Paul gave the police wide berth and scanned the passengers near the ticket windows for the tall figure of Madame Coudray and the tiny figure of his daughter.
There they were. Tension poured out of him. The first hurdle cleared.
“Hello, candy cane.” He hugged Josie to his side.
“I get to go on a train!” Joy danced in her big brown eyes.
Madame Coudray pressed a handkerchief to her eyes. “I—I was Simone’s nanny. Now Josie’s. I can’t bear the thought—”
“We’ll return Tuesday,” Paul said in a pointed tone. A lie, as Madame Coudray knew, but he couldn’t risk a teary scene that would draw attention. “Would you please stay with Josie while I buy our tickets?” And in case of Paul’s arrest.
After she nodded, Paul approached an open ticket window. “I would like a round-trip ticket to Orléans, returning on December 16. My four-year-old daughter will accompany me to Orléans, but not on the return.” Paul handed him hiscarted’identité. At Josie’s age, she didn’t need an identity card or a ticket.
The agent inspected Paul’s card, and a furrow split his brow. “You are American.” An accusation, not a question.
“Oui.”
The agent shoved the card back. “I have been ordered not to sell tickets to American men under sixty. You must report for internment.”
Paul’s gut clenched. He hadn’t anticipated that, but he slid his card back. “I am to report for internment on the seventeenth. I am taking my daughter to stay with her grandparents in Orléans. I will return on the sixteenth.”
“I’m sorry. You are not to leave.”
No. He had to leave. With the gas tank on his 1935 Authority empty, he could only escape by train.
Paul pressed his lips tight together and riffled through his wallet. “I have permission from German commissioner Oberst Gerhard Schiller, a personal friend.”
The man’s thick gray eyebrows shot high, then drew together. “No, I—”
Paul slapped down Schiller’s business card. “Call him to verify. He is at the Hôtel Majestic.”
The agent stared at the card as if it were poisoned. “I ...”
His hesitation was Paul’s open gate. “Go ahead. I’m sure the colonel won’t mind being interrupted during dinner.”
A grimace crossed the man’s face.
Now Paul gave a reassuring smile. “As long as I have a return ticket, oui?”
More grimacing.
“Please, sir? I am a widower. I want my little girl”—he gestured behind him to Josie’s sweetness—“I want her to spend her childhood where she can play free, not in an internment camp.”
The agent pulled out two tickets. “I am a grandfather.”
“Merci, monsieur. I am indebted to you.” At least womenweren’t under the internment order, so Lucie wouldn’t face the same problem.
Paul buried the ticket in the breast pocket of his suit jacket. The second hurdle cleared. The second of many.
The train rocked, but Lucie was in no danger of falling asleep. Either she’d beaten the police to the Gare d’Austerlitz or they didn’t suspect she’d flee south. She was almost in Orléans. Almost safe.
Or was she?
The train slowed, and blocky black shapes whished by in the night.
Lucie willed her mind to still, her face to look bored. The less people noticed her, the better. Only Paul and his contact in Paris knew she was bound for Orléans, so no one would look for her in town. If they did, they’d look for a hatless woman in a black coat.
After the train came to a stop, Lucie pulled her bag from the overhead rack, exited the train, and headed down the platform toward the main hall.
