“I have seen that date book,” Annabel declared. “Téa Marlo has it.”
“The Hollywood actress?” Oncle JP sounded doubtful.
“The German actress! Yes, I saw it in her dresser drawer.”
“I will not ask you why you were looking in there,” Oncle JP could not help saying.
Annabel said excitedly, “It all makes sense now. Téa left Berlin for Hollywood. The Nazis have been pressuring her, ever since she arrived in France. Everybody said it was because they want her to make films for Hitler. And I’m sure they do, but there must be more to it than that. If they want people to spy for them, she’s a good pick; she travels, meets people. She went off on a yacht with those awful men—it was that night of the masked ball, which is why I attended the dance in her place, wearing her gown and her mask.”
She gave a small gasp of comprehension. “And a man cornered me and spoke to me in German; he said, ‘You know what I want!’ I thought he was just trying to pick me up, but—”
Oncle JP looked shocked. Annabel, rapidly reassessing everything now, said, “And—ohhh! The day I went to Sainte-Agnès with Jack and Téa—she acted afraid of heights and wouldn’t leave the car. But as soon as we left her behind, she went traipsing off to take pictures of the Maginot fort! She acted like a tourist, but she took a lot of photos—”
“What! Pictures of the Maginot? You should have told me right away,” Oncle JP said sternly. “I think perhaps there is much more that you should tell me, right now?”
Annabel blushed, thinking of the champagne cocktails that Téa had pressed upon her and that whole nightmarish scene. Was it just sexual jealousy over Jack—or something more?
“Oh God! Téa Marlo saw me come back from the tennis shed with the Polish girl’s valise, and that’s why she drugged me—to find out where I put it!” she blurted out.
“Drugged you?” Oncle JP exclaimed, aghast.
“Yes. Last night she insisted I have a drink with her, and she put something in it. She said, ‘Wo ist der Koffer?’ I ran away before she could find out where the replica is.” Deeply troubled now, Annabel said, “Oncle—if Téa has the codebook, did she take it from Hans?”
“Undoubtedly. Perhaps she convinced him that she, too, was working against Hitler. Everyone admires famous people; even famous people admire each other. Perhaps she flirted with him and got herself invited into his room,” he concluded.
Annabel could picture Téa charming her way in. “Did she have to kill him to get it?”
“I doubt she meant to. You see, Dr. Gaspard found out something from Hans’s family: One of the reasons Hans took up sports is that he is allergic to most medicines, so he wanted to build himself up and keep healthy. Even a small dose of, say, a barbiturate could have killed him.” He sighed. Then he gave Annabel a worried look. “Téa failed to find the Enigma machine, but then she saw you with it. And she is surely still looking for it.”
“Oncle, what if the Nazis think that I am the new agent that Hans was waiting for!”
He said worriedly, “I just had the same thought. My colleagues and I must keep a close eye on you. And somehow, we must get that codebook.”
“Do you want me to get it for you?” she asked. He shook his head. “Why not?” she demanded. “You said I was your deputy now. So, what’s the plan?”
Oncle JP said carefully, “I can tell one of the maids to retrieve the codebook, now that you’ve given us a clue as to its whereabouts. We have a woman here who is working for us.”
Annabel absorbed this we and us with some surprise. “A maid? Which one?”
But Oncle JP said he could not tell her. “If you are being watched, I don’t want you to accidentally betray the maid with a flicker of recognition in your eye if you should see her. It takes great training to be a spy. You must unlearn natural behavior. No, I think it’s best if you just behave normally today,” he said thoughtfully. “What are you scheduled to do?”
“I go to see the screenwriter in the morning,” she answered. “Then tonight—he asked to escort me to the dance at la Fête des Étoiles.” Privately, Annabel suspected that Scott wanted her on his arm just to impress Norma Shearer and perhaps make her jealous.
The “Celebration of the Stars” was to be the last dinner dance at the Grand Hotel before the official opening of the Cannes Film Festival, and from then on the biggest events would take place in that city. Tonight’s fête was in honor of Charles Laughton—star of The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Rick’s father thought it would be good publicity for the Grand Hotel.
“I see,” Oncle JP said broodingly. Then he made a decision. “Yes, stay away from those actors at the villa. But you should go to that party. If what you say is true, then Téa Marlo will be looking for you and following you, so it’s better to have you out in public. Therefore you can keep an eye on Miss Marlo—and my people can look out for you.”
* * *
Now that a new typewriter had been sent to the Jasmine Cottage, Scott and Annabel were very busy that morning with Scott’s correspondence and writing. His story about teen pregnancy, “Salute to Lucy and Elsie,” had been turned down by Esquire magazine even after the valiant changes that Scott made, because, in the end, the editors still found it too controversial for American readers.
But by now Scott had Hollywood on his mind. Not only his novel but also his short stories were about people struggling in Tinseltown. The one about the feverish scriptwriter, called “Temperature,” got rejected by the Saturday Evening Post. Another story, called “Last Kiss,” was a sad tale about an aspiring English actress and a director who discovers too late that he loves her; but it was rejected by Collier’s and Cosmopolitan. Scott remained undaunted.
“Never mind. I’ve got a new Hollywood character whom I call Pat Hobby,” he enthused. “I think I could write a whole series of amusing short stories about him, poor devil. He’s a hack screenwriter, all washed up, but he’ll die trying. Here’s the first story; would you type it up right away? I’m going to send it to Esquire.”
And of course, he’d also written new pages of the treatment for his novel, ready for her to type up. It was just what Annabel needed now—something to focus on and keep her mind off what lay ahead tonight. Besides, she could not help but share in Scott’s excitement. “It’s fun to see Hollywood through your eyes. It sounds like a dream world,” she told him.
“But Hollywood is such a slack, soft place compared to here,” Scott mused. “It just doesn’t have the vitality and excitement of Provence.”
Annabel privately thought, I could do with a little less excitement around here.
At midday, they went outside for a breath of air. Jack was coming briskly down the path, looking energized. The sun was shining on his beautiful, curly hair, and Annabel felt her heart lurch at the sight of him, despite her uncle’s warning to stay away from the villa.
“He’s in a good mood this morning, strangely enough,” Scott observed. “You’d think after that disastrous screening party for Love Isn’t Easy, he’d be a depressed dog. But I bet he’s relieved to make a clean break from Sonny. Jack’s a fighter. Maybe he’s still got Rick backing his next picture.”
Indeed, Jack had a broad smile on his face when he saw them. “Annabel, where have you been?” he said eagerly. “I got our films from Sainte-Agnès developed. It all looks great—you should see it! The footage you shot is especially good. You’ve really got an eye.” He paused. “And Téa’s been looking all over for you. Why don’t you stop by tonight when you’re done?”
Annabel felt her blood freeze. She gazed at Jack and wondered, Do you have any idea what Téa really is? Are you her collaborator?
She’d kept her promise to Oncle JP and said nothing to Scott of what she’d learned about the Enigma replica, even when Scott told her this morning that Téa had been “nosing around here looking for you” earlier. Annabel’s face might have betrayed something then, for she’d had a moment’s panic when Scott asked her if “everything went all right with your uncle and that funny typewriter”; but when she’d simply nodded, Scott had studied her for a moment, sensed her discomfort, and let the issue drop.
Now, however, he saw that she was still frightened by that night at Jack’s villa, and he instinctively stepped in front of her to create a protective barricade with his broad shoulders as he said meaningfully to Jack, “You’d better tell Téa that Annabel’s working with me all day. And as for tonight, she’s my date. So you might say Annabel is spoken for.”
Jack glanced from Annabel to Scott, then said lightly, “Oh, well, good, see you both at the party tonight. Téa and I will be there, with bells on.”
Scott watched warily as Jack retreated to the villa. “Someday, I ought to write about those two characters,” he said darkly. “I suspect it will involve something quite nefarious.”
* * *
Oncle JP did an extraordinary thing that afternoon—he came down to the Jasmine Cottage to check up on Annabel, clearly wanting to make sure that she was still safe.
Scott had stepped out to go for a walk and clear his head. When Annabel opened the front door, Oncle JP looked supremely relieved to see that she hadn’t been spirited away by Nazi spies.
She told him that Scott was being very helpful without asking probing questions and that he was escorting her to the ball tonight, as planned. She also told him about Jack’s visit. She half expected her uncle to tell her not to go to the dance tonight after all.
But instead he said thoughtfully, “Fine. We can all keep an eye on one another tonight.”
“I guess I’d better find something to wear,” Annabel said, wondering if any of the things she’d brought with her from America would be appropriate. She doubted it. “I’ve got lots of work to do for Scott, so I won’t have much time to buy a dress.”
They had walked together to the front gate of the cottage. Oncle JP said briskly, “Don’t worry about that. I can borrow something from one of the good shops and have it sent here; just write down your size.” He took a small notepad from his pocket.
Annabel smiled gratefully and obliged. “You’d better have the dress sent to me here at the cottage,” she suggested. “I won’t have time to go back to my rooming house to get ready.”
“Ah bon. Then I will have a chambermaid bring it to you. So stay put. And remember, at the dance, act normal in every way. Never let on that you have any suspicions of anyone.”
When Annabel heard the word chambermaid, she was intrigued. “Is that . . . the maid—the one who’s ‘working’ with you?” she whispered.
“Yes.” Oncle JP nodded. “I thought you should know, after all, in case you need her help.”
“Did she find the codebook at Jack’s villa?” she asked.
Oncle JP shook his head ruefully. “She was told by Jack Cabot that Téa Marlo was sleeping and he did not wish to have her disturbed. So the maid was not allowed to go into the Villa Sanctuaire to clean today at all.”
“Oncle,” Annabel said quickly, “I could get it for you.” He hesitated. She went on, “I can watch from here and wait until Jack and Téa leave for the party. As soon as they are out of the villa, I’ll slip in and get it. Scott will wait outside to escort me to the party, so I’ll be safe. And I can bring the book to you up at the hotel, and it will just look as if I’m arriving at the party.”
Oncle JP gave her another of those rare approving looks. “Yes, all right. But be careful, Annabel. Two people have already been murdered just to stop us from obtaining this item.”
They had moved out along the pebbled path, and her uncle glanced back at the Jasmine Cottage as Scott returned from the other direction. He waved at them, looking preoccupied. Annabel knew that expression; it meant that he’d gotten an idea for something while out walking, and he wanted to hurry inside and write it down before he forgot it.
“What’s on his mind?” Oncle JP asked, bemused. “Another movie?”
Annabel said, “He does all that the studio asks, but he’s also been writing something very special all his own, which you mustn’t tell Sonny about. Scott’s a great author and he writes his heart out. It’s as if he’s on fire—nothing can distract him, not me, not the time of day, not sun nor rain, not even if he feels ill. He just lives to write.”
Oncle JP’s expression softened. “Ah,” he said. “Then he is an artist.”
After her uncle left, Annabel momentarily reflected that the French greatly respected their artists, even naming streets after their authors and painters and musicians. She reentered the cottage quietly so that she would not disturb Scott.
* * *
The maid who came to deliver the dress was a small, unassuming middle-aged woman named Nadia who wore her dark hair pulled into a no-nonsense bun at the nape of her neck. She carried the gown as if it were made of butterflies’ wings. And indeed it had that gossamer quality, in chiffon colors of violet and blue. She had even brought a pair of blue satin pumps to go with it. And then she reached into an apron pocket and pulled out a small wrapped item.
“It’s a gift. Your uncle said he bought it for your birthday next month, but he wants you to have it for tonight,” Nadia said with a smile. Annabel unwrapped it—a jewel box, containing a small but fine sparkling diamond pendant on a gleaming gold chain nestled against the dark velvet lining of the box.
“Oh, it catches the light so beautifully!” Annabel said in delight. “Will you help me put it on?” They went into the small cloakroom so that Annabel could get dressed.
Scott was down the hall, in the bathroom, shaving and humming to himself.
She slipped into the gown and shoes. The maid said, “Here you go,” and draped the pendant around Annabel’s slender neck and adjusted the clasp.
Annabel drifted over to the mirror in the hallway to see herself at full length.
“Comme un beau cygne,” Nadia murmured as she stepped back to examine the impression that the whole outfit made.
“What’d she say?” Scott asked as he emerged, looking dapper in his evening outfit.
“She said I looked like a—beautiful swan,” Annabel said shyly.
“You do!” Scott said approvingly.
“You look pretty spiffy yourself,” she said, adding teasingly, “Is that another one of Jack’s outfits that you ‘borrowed’ from the studio?”
“It is not,” Scott said. “It’s mine. I keep it for emergencies.” He disappeared into the kitchen area and reemerged carrying a cellophane box with a white gardenia corsage in it.
“Back home, a man can’t take a girl out without bringing her a flower,” he said simply. The maid helped Annabel pin it on, as Scott stepped outside to light his cigarette.
Nadia handed her a pair of gloves and then a blue purse. “For the codebook,” Nadia murmured. “The key to the villa is inside the purse.” Then she hurried off.
“Ready?” Scott asked. Annabel nodded, and they set out. Music was wafting from the hotel; the band was playing a lovely tune called “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” sung by a young woman with a powerful yet yearning voice that floated across the lawns in a ghostly, poignant way.
But as they drew nearer Jack’s villa, she said lightly, “Just one thing. I left something in Téa’s room the last time I was there. But let’s wait until Jack and Téa leave the villa before I go get it. I’ll only be a few minutes.”
Scott gave her a meaningful look. “I said it before; I’ll say it again. You are a terrible liar. Your uncle was here, so I assume he’s aware of what you’re up to and it’s okay with him?” She nodded. Still, he said gently, “But are you sure you want to go back into that villa?”
“Yes,” Annabel said. “And I need you to be my lookout. If anyone comes, whistle to warn me so I can get out without being seen.” She laid a gloved hand on his arm to detain him. “I’ll only be a few minutes,” she murmured apologetically.
Scott sighed. “You’ve finally become a woman of mystery.” Then he added in a fatherly tone, “And I’m not sure I like it.”
They went partway down the path, pausing at the turn before the villa. It was already growing dark outside now. Clouds were scuttling overhead, cloaking and then revealing a half moon that peered down at the partygoers.
Annabel heard Jack’s laugh and Téa’s sultry tone as the pair sauntered out onto the path and headed toward the hotel, away from where Scott and Annabel were lingering, hidden by the tall shrubbery. As the voices progressively faded away, Scott dramatically put a hand to his ear, exaggerating his caution.
“The coast is clear,” he whispered, and they drew nearer to the Villa Sanctuaire.
He waited for her at the path, smoking meditatively, while she slipped noiselessly up to the villa. She opened the purse, took out the key, unlocked the front door, and entered.
It was dark inside, except for the small lamp on Téa’s dressing table. It shed weak light, but to Annabel it was like a star beckoning her.
She hurried over to the dressing table and went straight to the drawer where she had seen the satin-covered date book. She pushed aside the handkerchiefs and scarves.
It wasn’t there.
Annabel stifled a groan. She glanced wildly around the room. Had Téa given the book to someone else? If not, where might she have hidden it? Annabel checked the other drawers in the dressing table, then the ones in the little night table by the bed.
She peered under the bed. She eyed the mattress doubtfully, realizing that Téa surely knew that this would not be a good hiding place if a maid came to change the sheets while Téa was out. But Annabel checked under the mattress anyway. No date book.
Finally her eyes, adjusting to the poor light, spotted Téa’s matching luggage, lined up neatly in an alcove near the closet. It was leather, every piece handmade by Hermès.
“Suitcase,” Annabel murmured. “Koffer.” She opened each gently. The interiors were a sensual cream-colored suede. One for hats. One for shoes. The largest was a trunk, where one side had a silver rod for hanging clothes; the other side had a series of satin-lined lingerie drawers. Annabel checked them all, until at last she found, buried beneath a tissue-wrapped peach-colored peignoir set, the pink satin diary with the year embroidered in red thread.
“This is it!” she gasped in amazement as she glanced inside briefly; for the pages did, indeed, resemble the photo of the code sheet that her uncle had shown her. Hastily she closed up the trunk and put the diary into her purse, feeling her heart pounding with triumph.
Suddenly she heard a rustling sound. She froze. She heard it again, more clearly now. Someone was in the next room and moving closer. Hastily she slipped into the closet, leaving the door slightly ajar because, if she shut it completely, it would make a telltale click.
She held her breath and waited. Someone entered Téa’s bedroom now and was moving about. If the intruder yanked open the closet door, he’d find Annabel standing there in her evening gown with a German codebook in her purse and no plausible excuse.
The floor creaked as the person moved about. Someone was using the telephone. It was a short conversation. The man in the room said in a low, gruff voice, “Tout est prêt. Oui, d’accord.” He replaced the receiver but then stood there, as if waiting.
Annabel waited, too, straining to hear if the man on the other side of the door had sensed her presence. It seemed like an eternity, until, at last, she heard his footsteps retreating, then silence. She waited longer before cautiously slipping out of the closet, then paused again in the bedroom, silently listening.
Now she could distinctly hear footsteps leaving the parlor and then the sound of the back door being shut behind the man. She could even hear a rustling sound in the shrubs out there. Whoever it was must have taken the little side street behind the villa.
Finally, all was still. Annabel hurried out the front door, locked it behind her, and rushed away. Scott was still standing by the path, smoking and gazing up at the sky.
“Mission accomplished?” he asked in a low voice.
“Did you see him?” she asked breathlessly. “Why didn’t you whistle to warn me?”
“See who?” Scott asked, baffled. “Nobody came here.”
“Somebody did!” she hissed. “He went in and out the back door.”
“Who was it? Did he see you?” Scott asked worriedly. She shook her head.
“Look,” Scott warned, “whatever it is you’re doing, I think you’ve got to stop. Let’s get off this dark path and get over to that party, where there are people and lights, instead of spies and owls and bats. Frankly, I’m beginning to wonder about you and your mysterious errands.”
“I’ll tell you all about it one day, and you can put me in one of your stories,” Annabel promised, taking his arm.
When they reached the main path, the sky had darkened, for the moon was now completely shrouded by clouds. They walked carefully, following the tiny footlights at the outer edges of the path. As they approached the terrace, Annabel could not help feeling a burst of pride in the Grand Hotel, sparkling like a jewel for this event, with a dramatic white satin sash draped across the entrance bearing letters in gold, heralding la Fête des Étoiles.
“You said it means ‘Celebration of the Stars’?” Scott mused, then turned and gazed up at the sky. “I keep trying to see the heavenly ones, but they’ve been playing hide-and-seek with those sheeplike clouds. Wonder where the Big Dipper is from here.”
“Well, there’s plenty of Hollywood stars to see,” Annabel said, gesturing at the other arriving guests, who at a distance looked more like a flock of exotic birds crossing the lawn.
It was one of those sweet summer nights when, even in this turbulent year, everyone was happy just to be together, relaxing in the warm night air that blew in from the sea. Out in the darkness, small lights winked and gleamed from several yachts anchored in the distance.
“Cary Grant is on the guest list. I wonder if he’ll actually show up!” Annabel said, scanning the crowd for a sign of the incredibly handsome, dark-haired thirty-five-year-old actor, who had the grace of an acrobat, brooding dark eyes, and a romantic cleft in his chin. After a string of light roles, Cary Grant had surprised the Hollywood press this year with his intense, dramatic portrayal of a tough, daring pilot in Only Angels Have Wings.
She didn’t spot him, but the night was full of other glamorous guests. The women came fluttering across the garden paths, their jewels occasionally catching the light and looking like fireflies. The men’s silhouettes appeared so sophisticated in their finely tailored evening wear.
The young woman who’d been singing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” had been asked to sing another song, so she stood at the microphone under a spotlight, her sad, dark eyes as big as saucers, her voice both strong and plaintive as she sang “You Made Me Love You.”
“It’s Judy Garland,” Scott said. “She’s seventeen years old, but she’s a real pro.”
Annabel thought fleetingly of poor Cissy, who loved to sing but had been sent home like a delinquent schoolgirl. She should be here to be inspired by the power of a good voice.
As Scott and Annabel approached the staircase to the terrace, a couple arrived via a side path and stepped deliberately in front of them. It was Téa, but she was not with Jack; she was walking with that man who Scott had said cheated on the tennis courts—the one called Herr Ubel, a man with a severe military haircut and the attitude to match.
Téa cried out, “Annabel!” and grasped her by the wrist, kissing her on both cheeks as if they hadn’t seen each other all summer.
Annabel caught the scent of attar of roses. Her heart began to pound as she wondered, Did someone see me come out of the villa? Does Téa know? Do they suspect that I stole the codebook, and that I have it in my purse, this very minute? Was Herr Ubel the man in the villa?
Téa pulled her away from the men and whispered, “Darling, I’m so sorry about the other night. I’ve been under such stress, and I guess the champagne went right to my head. Let’s go sit somewhere where we can talk.”
Annabel felt Téa’s firm grip still on her arm. Yet there was something almost hysterical in Téa’s manner; she looked so desperate, waiting for an answer as if her life depended on it.
Even now Annabel started to feel a tug of pity, but then she steeled herself and said meaningfully, “Oh, don’t worry, Téa. I understand perfectly.”
Téa gasped and stepped back, startled by Annabel’s unflinching gaze and this unusually firm tone from a girl who’d been so malleable and admiring.
Herr Ubel moved forward impatiently now. “Come, Téa, there are some people here tonight who are eager to meet you.”
Annabel caught her breath, for she recognized that voice, oh yes. It was not the same as that of the man who’d just been in the villa speaking French. But it most definitely belonged to the man in the satyr mask who’d backed her into a corner on the night of the masked ball.
Scott took Annabel by the arm and steered her away from them. “And now if you will excuse us,” he said firmly to Herr Ubel, “my date and I are going dancing tonight.”