From what he could tell, the investigators had found nothing, but ironically they’d slowed production.
Since Saturday had been the first day of the investigation, Paul had come to the factory and sent Josie with Madame Coudray to Children’s Hour. Paul blamed Schiller for stealing a precious hour with the woman he loved.
Seeing Lucie from a distance at church pained him now that he knew the feel of her lithe form in his arms and the taste of her lips and the sound of adoring words in her voice. For now, knowing she cared for him had to suffice, knowing she knew of his involvement with the resistance even though he couldn’t reveal the details.
Footsteps thudded on the staircase to his left. René Lafarge ascended wearing a self-important smile, and Jacques Moreau followed, his face grim.
Paul eased back from the railing. What was going on?
“Monsieur Aubrey?” Moreau said. “We need to speak in private.”
Paul glanced between the two men, one looking as if he’d lost a fortune and the other as if he’d found it. “Come into my office.”
He opened the door and addressed Miss Thibodeaux at her desk. “I mustn’t be disturbed.”
“Yes, sir.”
As Paul held open the door to his private office, Lafarge sauntered in. Paul shot Moreau a questioning look.
Moreau shook his head, his eyes pinched as if in pain.
Paul raised a mental shield and a mental sword, and he shut the door. “What is this about?”
Lafarge strolled around the office and ran his hand over unruly gray hair. “Nice place. Bigger than my apartment. Fancy rug, fancy desk, fancy chair.” He trailed his fingers along polished mahogany and plopped into Paul’s chair. “How much money do you make each week, Aubrey?”
Heat puffed out Paul’s chest and burned up his throat. “I beg your pardon.”
Lafarge stroked the leather armrest. “Do you prefer Paul?”
“I prefer ‘Monsieur Aubrey,’ and I prefer you get out of my chair.”
“You do not dictate terms to me, Paul.”
“What is going on here?” Paul snapped his gaze to Moreau.
The foreman stared at his scuffed shoes, his jaw jutted forward and his fists clenched behind his back.
Leaning back in the chair, Lafarge lifted his sharp nose high. “I dictate the terms. Unless you want me to talk to those German soldiers.”
A fist clamped around Paul’s heart and shut off blood flow, but he kept his face still. “I expect all my employees to cooperate with the investigation.”
Lafarge laughed and wagged a finger at him. “You do not want me to tell them what I saw.”
What had he seen? Sabotage? The airmen? The kisses in the Tuileries?
Paul knew better than to react or reveal. He strode in front of his own chair, crossed his arms, and looked down his nose at Lafarge. “What did you see?”
Too-full lips spread in a smile. “Sabotage.”
“If so, I want to know. And I want you to tell the investigators.”
Lafarge chuckled. “No, you don’t. They’ll arrest your workers and execute them. They’ll turn this factory inside out. Why, they’ll probably arrest you.”
Paul glanced at Moreau. “What does he think he saw?”
The foreman shrugged. “He says he saw someone hiding evidence.”
“I did see it.” The chair creaked as Lafarge rocked forward. “On Friday afternoon, I saw Boucheron with a big bag of sand. I followed him outside, and he locked it in a shed. He looked like he was up to no good, so I broke in. I found acids and tools and sandbags—locked away from the Germans. Then I remembered parts wearing down after Boucheron fixed them. Crates falling apart, breaking all those windshields. The nails were corroded—by acid, I’ll bet. Then I remembered a strange smell in the lubricant.”
