Evelyn zipped up her skirt. With Peter in the bathroom, she could dress in privacy.
After she slipped on her jacket, she stashed away the slinky nightgown Simone had sneaked into the suitcase. Evelyn would throttle that woman if she ever saw her again. At least Simone had also packed a dressing gown. Yes, Evelyn wanted to convince Peter not to annul the marriage, but not by sashaying around in creamy satin.
As best she could, she straightened the suitcase. Neatness was foreign to her, but since it was important to Peter, it was important to her—especially in close quarters.
Hands on hips, she surveyed the room. Only her toiletries remained. As soon as Peter returned, she’d take her turn in the bath—
A loud crack sounded outside the room.
Evelyn startled. A gunshot?
No . . .
All her thoughts and all her blood drained from her head.
“Peter?” she whispered. He didn’t have a gun. That meant . . .
“Oh no. Oh no. Lord, help.” Something to use as a weapon—anything!
She grabbed the fireplace poker and flung open the door.
“Evelyn!” Peter cried from inside the bathroom.
He was alive! Thank God! “Peter!”
The bathroom door banged open, and he lurched out, shirtless, clothing in one hand, and in the other—a gun!
Crazed eyes met hers, then his face flooded with relief and he strode to her. “We need to leave.”
“What happened? I heard—”
Crimson streaked across the arm with the gun, dripped to the floor.
“You’re bleeding!” She reached for him.
But he shepherded her to their room. “Now! We need to leave now. A man tried to kill me. I shot him. He’s dead.”
Evelyn stumbled through the doorway. “A man? Who? How did—”
“I’ll explain later.” He dumped his clothing into the suitcase and swung the lid shut. “Let’s go.”
She grabbed his arm above the wound and thrust her face in front of his. “Stop. You’re bleeding hard. You need a bandage. You need to get dressed.”
He straightened, his eyes as wild as the night the synagogue was destroyed but as focused as on Kristallnacht. “We have to get on the ship before the police arrive. A man was killed. It was self-defense, but I’ll be detained. We must get home.”
Her stomach caved in. He was right.
She grabbed a linen towel from the rack by the sink. “Fine. But a bleeding, half-naked man will draw attention. Understood?”
Peter groaned in resignation.
“Put on your shirt.” She whipped the towel around the wound—deep and ugly and in need of stitches—and she bound it tight. “Keep your sleeve above the elbow and drape your overcoat over the bandage.”
While Evelyn packed the suitcase, Peter finished dressing.
“I can’t believe the innkeeper isn’t up here. The gunshot . . .” Peter eyed the door as he struggled into his suit jacket. “I’ll fight him off if I must.”
With her heartbeat reverberating in her ears, Evelyn threw on her hat, coat, and purse. A sick feeling wormed in her stomach. They’d used their real names on the hotel registration card since they had to show their papers. “Peter? We should call the police. If we run, we’ll look guilty.”
“Absolutely not.” Peter slapped on his hat, tossed his coat over his injured arm, and picked up the gun with his good hand. “They want us dead. We aren’t safe in France. Let’s go.”
Evelyn clamped her tongue between her teeth, picked up the suitcase, and followed him. She’d have to convince him to call the police along the way. Somehow, her law-abiding Peter had turned into a gunslinger.
Leading with that gun, he stepped out of the room, looked both ways, and dashed down the hall, light-footed. “Don’t look in the bathroom.”
Evelyn averted her gaze. Not only did she not want to see a dead body, but she also didn’t want to be reminded that she needed to use the restroom.
Peter made his way downstairs. Everything was quiet. Why was there no shouting? No phones ringing?
At the bottom of the stairs, Peter held up one hand to signal Evelyn to wait, then he crept forward and peered behind the front desk. His shoulders drooped. “Lord, no.”
“What?” She rushed to join him. Behind the desk—two feet—legs sprawled—
Peter tugged her into an embrace. “Don’t look. His throat is slit. The innkeeper—he’s dead, Evie. He’s dead.”
“Oh no. The poor man.” She pressed her face into Peter’s shoulder, her mind convulsing.
“Not to be callous, but that means he hasn’t called the police.”
Evelyn pulled herself together. She had to think straight. “Someone else in the neighborhood . . . surely someone heard.”
“We have a little more time though.” He guided her toward the front door.
“Wait.” She spun away to the desk, to the box of green registration cards. Evelyn riffled through, found theirs, and stuffed it in her coat pocket. “Now we’re clear. When we reach New York, we’ll contact the authorities and tell them everything.”
Peter stared at her pocket. “The registration card. I didn’t even think—”
“Put away the gun. We’ll stroll out as if nothing were amiss.” Evelyn took his arm above the wound and led him outside.
Two women and a man stood in the street, calling to each other, pointing in different directions. Was it gunfire? Something else?
“Did you hear that too?” Evelyn put on a worried expression and pointed across the street. “Over there.”
“Oui, madame,” the gentleman said. “My wife is calling the gendarme.”
“Good. Thank you.” Evelyn gave him a grateful nod and led Peter to the south.
“The docks are the other way,” Peter whispered.
She assumed a low voice. “We’ll circle the block. If they report seeing us leave, they’ll say we headed south, toward the train station.”
“Good idea.” Peter set the pace, brisk but unhurried.
“So . . .” She affected a cheerful voice and gazed at the row of pastel homes with windows rimmed in brick. “It looks like rain. Can you tell me what happened casually, as if we were discussing the weather?”
“Sure.” Peter smiled at the gray sky. “A man was waiting in the bathroom, hiding in the cabinet. When I was at the sink, he tried to slit my throat. I raised my arm just in time.”
Evelyn’s stomach heaved. That could have been Peter sprawled dead on the floor. But she propped up her smile. “Did you recognize him?”
Peter turned the corner, tipped his hat to a young couple, and stayed silent until the couple was well behind them. “Never saw him before. He wore a uniform—like the SA, but with a blue shirt and a beret. His tie clip had a strange design—a sheaf of wheat, a wheel, a battle-ax.”
“What?” Evelyn worked hard to maintain her neutral expression. “I know that badge. He was a Blue Shirt, a member of the Mouvement Franciste—it’s a fascist group, antisemitic. They were banned a couple of years ago, but . . . obviously Norwood is working with them.”
“Maybe. Or through Otto’s connections. Or George and Otto working together. Doesn’t matter who—it only matters that they want us dead.”
An elderly man approached, hand in hand with a tiny girl, and Evelyn worked up a “Bonjour.”
Was it her imagination or was the street more crowded, the people more menacing, the clothing bluer? “How do they know we’re here? Did Norwood follow us?”
Peter shrugged and turned another corner, now headed north to the docks. “Or he simply realized we want to leave the country. Not many ships sail this time of year.”
“What if . . .” She smiled at a lady with a baby carriage and waited a bit. “What if I did see Norwood at the embassy? What if he hid from you? What if he realized we came from the visa office and talked to the official? We mentioned the Aquitania.”
“We did,” Peter said in a low voice.
At the end of the street, the RMS Aquitania rose into view, her massive black hull, her elegant white upper decks, and four giant stacks painted red and tipped with black.
Evelyn had thought the ship would be a refuge. “We won’t be safe on board.”
“Yes, we will.” Peter gave her a powerful look. “We have a first-class stateroom with a private bath. We’ll have the steward bring our meals. We’ll never have to leave. And in New York, we’ll tell the police the whole story. If Norwood follows us, they can arrest him—or at least bring him in for questioning.”
As they drew closer to the majestic ocean liner, a sad smile rose. “All those sumptuous dining rooms and lounges and swimming pools, and we’ll be cowering in our stateroom.”
Peter let out a dry chuckle. “Some romantic honeymoon, eh, Mrs. Lang?”
She gave him a gentle smile and a squeeze of the arm.
But her goal had careened from romance to survival.