Paul thrust his chin at Lafarge. “If you’re convinced this is happening, tell the police.”
Lafarge spun the chair in a lazy circle. “If I tell the police, you’ll be ruined. But what do I gain? A pat on the back? A citation? What good is that?”
Moreau shook his head, slow and ponderous.
Heaviness pressed on Paul’s gut. He was about to get blackmailed.
Lafarge folded his hands on his belly. “By telling you, we both gain. You stay out of prison, and I—how much money do you make, Paul?”
Paul set one hand on his hip, slapped the other on his desk, and leaned into Lafarge’s face. “You think you can blackmail me? Think again.”
Lafarge laughed sour breath into Paul’s face. “Think of it as an investment, keeping this factory open...” He picked up a framed photo of Josie. “Making sure this little thing doesn’t become an orphan.”
Paul snatched the frame out of Lafarge’s greasy hand. “Get out of my office.”
“Monsieur Aubrey,” Moreau said in a heavy voice, “you must listen to him.”
Chest heaving, Paul stared down his foreman. Moreau’s gaze leveled at him—sad, determined, almost fatherly.
If Lafarge reported to the police, the saboteurs would be arrested, the factory scoured. They’d find the airmen, maybe trace the escape line. How many men in the factory and the resistance would be arrested? Executed? Maybe even men who weren’t involved. The Germans weren’t known for finesse.
How could Paul let good men die?
“These are my terms.” Lafarge patted the armrest. “You will double my wages.”
Paul clutched the brass picture frame and gave a sharp nod.
“Also, the sabotage must stop. The German army is the only thing protecting us from the Russian hordes. We need to get as many trucks to them as possible.”
A low growl rose from Moreau.
Lafarge pointed a spindly finger at Moreau. “Tell your friends to stop. For each new act of sabotage, my price doubles. Or you all die.”
“No one will die,” Paul said between gritted teeth. “You win. Now get out.”
Lafarge stood and bowed. “A pleasure doing business with you, Paul.”
“Out. Now.”
After Lafarge ambled out of the office, Paul shoved the door shut and motioned Moreau to the window, far from the door.
Moreau stood close, his thick eyebrows bunched together. “You can’t fire him.”
“No.” If he did, he’d be pointing those German rifles at his own head and the heads of a dozen men or more.
“I don’t think he suspects you,” Moreau said in a low voice. “He only wanted to scare you.”
Paul pressed Josie’s photo to his stomach. It had worked better than it should have. “Does he know about our guests?” If Lafarge discovered the flyboys, Paul was doomed. The Germans offered a ten-thousand-franc reward for each airman, a price he couldn’t match.
“No,” Moreau said. “We can keep our hotel open, but we’ll need to scale back everything else.”
Paul blew out a hot breath. “Everything’s on hold during the investigation anyway. We’ll need to consider how we can proceed.”
“Ifwe can proceed.”
Denial squirmed inside, but what choice did they have? It was one thing to risk your life, another to commit suicide. “Very well. Every Friday, I’ll give you Lafarge’s cash from my funds. It can’t go through payroll.”
“You did well. Very well.” Moreau thumped him on the arm and left the office.
