Lucie slapped the book shut and returned it.
Only half an hour until closing time, and the store was empty. With her identity card and store key in her skirt pocket, she flipped the store sign fromouverttoferméand locked the door.
Mystery Man was almost down to the place de l’Odéon.Lucie followed, noting pedestrians to slip behind, doorways to duck into. But he never looked behind him.
In market lines and in her store, Lucie had heard more whisperings of resistance. More than once she’d reminded students that if she could hear them, others could too.
After a few minutes, the man turned in to the Jardin du Luxembourg. Lucie quickened her pace, her steps silent. Her plan had been germinating, and now it could see the sun.
Lucie spun as if relishing the spring air under the spreading trees. Not a soul in earshot, and she fell in beside the young man. “Bonjour, monsieur.”
He glanced at her, and dark eyebrows rose. “Mademoiselle?”
“Oui.Mademoiselle Girard from the bookstore. I’d like to discuss something with you.”
He sighed, his face young and unlined. “I know. I do not buy books, but—”
“No, I want to discuss your notes.”
“Notes?”
“In the books. Your code is clever, but I figured it out.”
His pointy jaw shifted, and he turned down a narrow, curving path. “I do not know what you are talking about.”
Lucie kept pace. “The word is a street name. Placide for rue Saint-Placide. And the page number is the address. I noticed sometimes the notes face left and sometimes right, facing the street number. Then the symbol. The letter is the day of the week—Jforjeudi—and the arrow is the time, like a clock’s hand.”
He lifted his palms. “Mademoiselle, I do not know—”
“My point is, if I—and I didn’t attend a lycée, much less a university—if even I can figure it out, so could the police or the Germans.”
The young man’s step hitched.
Lucie gave him a reassuring smile. “I’d like to help.”
His upper lip curled. “You think I am—”
“Standing up to the Germans, yes, and I want to help. I have an idea.”
“You are American. Your country refuses to help. This is not your fight.” He marched down another shaded lane.
“I am a Parisienne, so it is my fight. It’s the fight of all who love freedom.”
“Mademoiselle—”
“Please listen. I can prevent your notes from falling into the wrong hands. You leave them on the bookshelf where anyone can find them. As you saw, I can’t bar Germans from my store.”
His arms swung hard. “Get to the point. I would like my dinner.”
A thrill ran through her. He’d admitted his involvement. “The solution is simple. Bring the book to me. You could ask me to put it on hold—you forgot your wallet and will pay later. Or you could bring two books—buy one and decide not to buy the other.”
The man’s pace didn’t slow, but the swinging of arms lessened.
An elderly couple approached, and Lucie kept silent until they’d passed. “I’ll keep the books behind the cash register. Your friends would ask me for the title—they already know which books to look for. They could say they’d called earlier, or they’d brought their wallet, or a friend put it on hold for them. Then I’d pass it on.”
One masculine hand rose to block her words. “If I were involved in such things, why on earth would I trust someone so indiscreet?”
Inside, Lucie bristled, but she didn’t let it show. “On the contrary. I have not asked your name. You never knew I’d been reading your notes. You didn’t notice me following you, and I waited until we entered the gardens to talk to you. Also, I danced with the Paris Opéra Ballet.”
