Despite wanting nothing more than to take a nap, Stella left the Hotel Krasnapolsky after changing her muddy boots to clean pumps and touching up her makeup and wig. No matter where she chose to go next, being presentable was absolutely necessary. The baron wasn’t likely to be picky, but one never knew. If he caught her talking to Cornelia, it would be easier to talk her way out if she didn’t have mud up to her ankles. There was no mud in Amsterdam and while he might be crazy, the baron was also observant.
As for the other option, Father Schoffelmeer was an unknown. Elizabeth adored him, she also described him as fussy and an all-around crank. Elizabeth had given her a letter of introduction to help her along, but his help wasn’t guaranteed by any means. The thought of lying to a priest made Stella queasy enough to find herself on the way to the baron’s house without giving it too much thought. The Father could wait until after she’d secured Cornelia’s help and she strolled through the back streets she’d come to know so well, doing her best not to rush because Micheline didn’t rush. She had patience and wasn’t up to anything at all. Stella Bled Lawrence, on the other hand, was in a tight spot and wanted to run to the baron’s house and pound on the door.
It looked like she wasn’t the only one with a pounding heart and clenched teeth. Sunday was usually quiet with no one in a rush to do anything, but that day lots of people were out. Some had suitcases. Others just worried faces. Nobody was particularly interested in her. Everyone kept glancing up at the sky, furtive glances full of fear as if bombers were expected at any moment. Stella doubted the first sign of the invasion would be a bomber over Amsterdam, but it would happen fast and the thought made her feet move.
She turned the corner onto the baron’s canal road and got the strangest feeling, a prickly kind of heat on the back of her neck. She stopped to look in a shop window and there he was. A man, like so many others, wearing an overcoat and fedora pulled low, stopped at the shop next door. It could be a coincidence, but Stella had been trained to notice and she’d noticed him outside the Hotel Krasnapolsky. His right pocket had a tear at the edge and it made him distinctive. Other than that, he was typical, short blond hair, very tall with the bone structure that tagged him as most likely Dutch. Stella turned away from the window and weighed her options, continue to the baron’s or try to lose him. Losing him might tip him off that she knew he was there and show a professionalism that didn’t work for her. He wasn’t one of their people. She’d spotted Oliver before he’d met up with her in Rotterdam and he didn’t follow her. There was no need. He’d just planted himself in the vicinity to check up, see if she were well and active. She was and he disappeared. This man wanted to know what she was up to. It was best to let him find out or at least, think he found out.
Cornelia it was. Stella walked away from the shop with a casual stride, no hurry, and looked up occasionally like everyone else seemed to do every few minutes. She reached the baron’s house after a few blocks and turned down into the servant stairwell to knock on the wide lower door. It took a few minutes and she got nervous. Flore was an option, but it would be hard to explain why she wanted to telegram Yannj in the States right then and there. The old lady was so inquisitive and getting her out to send a telegram might be a challenge in itself. She’d probably never sent one in her life and was bound to talk about it.
Stella knocked again and the door finally opened. A young woman about Stella’s real age looked out with wide eyes and stifling a yawn. “Yes?”
“Is Cornelia in?” Stella asked quickly. Too quickly.
The girl woke up and said, “Do you have a message? Has something happened?”
“With the invasion?”
The girl frowned. “With the baron.”
“What about the baron?”
She clamped a hand over her mouth and tried to close the door, but Stella pushed it back. “It’s all right. I’m a friend of Cornelia’s. I was at the party on Friday. Don’t you recognize me?”
The girl squinted at Stella, but nothing dawned on her. Micheline Dubois was hardly a showstopper on a night of showstopping.
Stella made herself laugh. “I don’t blame you. It was quite a night. I have nightmares about the rope line.”
She tried to close the door again and Stella said, “I won’t mention anything to Cornelia. You have my word.”
“Really?” the maid said through spread fingers.
Stella pushed her hand down. “Really. I just wanted to take Cornelia for a coffee, if she’s not busy.”
“She’s not busy. There’s nothing to do.” She clamped her hand over her mouth again and Stella almost rolled her eyes.
“It’s fine. Go get Cornelia.” Stella wheeled the girl around and gave her a gentle push into the house. The girl dashed down the hall, calling for Cornelia and sounding like she was about to pee her pants. She was a lovely little thing, but the baron’s secret wouldn’t last long with her.
“Micheline!” Cornelia came down the hall and bounced off the wall, overcorrected and bounced off the other one. “What doing here?”
“Someone has been at the jenever early today,” said Stella with a laugh.
Cornelia fluttered her fingers above her chest. “Who me?”
Stella rolled her eyes dramatically and said, “Let me take you for some coffee. I think you need it.”
“I don’t need coffee. We’re to be invaded by the Huns, the nasty, disgusting Boche!”
“Let’s get some coffee.”
“No!” exclaimed Cornelia.
The girl was nodding emphatically and several other servants joined her. There was a consensus.
“Well,” said Stella. “I want some coffee. You can have—”
“More Jenever.” Cornelia grabbed Stella’s arm. “I got the bottle you sent. It was so good. I drank it all.”
“I see that.”
“Wait a minute. You said…what did you say?”
“I have no idea,” said Stella. “Let’s go to the café.”
“You were leaving. You sent the Jenever because you were going…somewhere.”
“Home. I was going home.”
Stella got in the hall and behind Cornelia to push her over the threshold. The baron’s valet gave her Cornelia’s coat and whispered, “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Stella.
“Don’t mention what?” asked Cornelia. “Is it a secret?”
“There’s no secret,” said Stella. “We’re going to the café.”
“To get more Jenever?”
“Sure.”
The other servants shook their heads frantically and Stella wrinkled her nose, shaking her head. She knew what to do. Years of wrangling Uncle Josiah had given her ample practice. Happy drunks were all the same. It was the mean ones you had to worry about. Cornelia was decidedly happy, despite her concern that they were about to be bombed to smithereens like London.
Stella got her up on the street and put her coat on. “London hasn’t been bombed.”
“All gone. It’s all gone.”
“You’re thinking of Warsaw.”
“Is that in…somewhere?” Cornelia weaved, nearly stepping into the road in front of a truck. She’d have been flattened if Stella hadn’t pulled her back.
“Get yourself together,” said Stella, yawning. “The baron wouldn’t like this.”
Cornelia raised a scraggly eyebrow and asked, “What do you know? What did that girl tell you?”
“I know that he wouldn’t want his favorite maid to get run over by a truck.”
She looked into the road, surprised to see vehicles there. “I should get some coffee.”
“At last, we agree.” Stella hooked her arm through Cornelia’s and they headed down the canal toward the café.
“I can have just a little Jenever.” She held up her fingers to show the small amount. It wasn’t that small.
“Naturally.”
“You understand me.”
“I think I do.”
They found the café half empty, which was unusual for a Sunday afternoon, and the people at the tables were hunched over, whispering.
“They’ve got secrets, too,” whispered Cornelia.
“We’ve all got a secret,” said Stella and the waiter raised his brows at them. “We’re all terrified at what’s coming.”
“I’m not terrified,” said Cornelia. “I’m mad.”
“Be mad while having coffee.” Stella called for two coffees and the waiter asked, “Large?”
“Very.”
She moved Cornelia through a multitude of empty tables to an isolated corner, trying to decide if her drunkenness was a good thing or a bad thing. Presumably she’d be easier to convince, but she might yell, too.
The waiter brought their coffees in record time. “Might I suggest some toast?”
“Yes, please,” said Stella.
“Who wants toast? Toast is for children and old ladies.”
The waiter screwed up his mouth at the pair of them. He was twenty at most and from the look on his smooth young face you’d have thought they were grandmothers. Before becoming Micheline, Stella hadn’t realized women aged so much faster than men. A man at Cornelia’s age was in the prime of his life while she was over the hill and unimportant. Being unmarried made it all the worse.
“I have a nice brioche,” he suggested, less dismissive than he might have been.
“Toast is good for indigestion,” said Stella.
“I want some Jenever,” said Cornelia.
“Toast and a bottle of Jenever.”
The waiter pursed his lips. “I don’t know about—”
“Trust me,” said Stella with a hard look.
The waiter dithered back and forth, but in the end, he went to the bar and got a small bottle half full. Stella watched him walk back dragging his feet and wondered if he ever tried to deny a man of any age liquor, substituting his judgment for theirs. Somehow she doubted it.
“Thank you,” she said sarcastically.
“Um…you’re welcome.”
She’d confused him and it felt good.
“Don’t forget the toast.”
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
Cornelia tried to grab the Jenever bottle out of Stella’s hand and almost upset her coffee.
“Stop that,” said Stella. “You are such a nuisance today.”
Cornelia drew back and burped. “You don’t mean it.”
“I do. Look at yourself, all red-eyed and burping in public. What would the baron think?”
“He’s in the country.” She reached for the bottle again.
“I’ll do it.” Stella unscrewed the cap and said, “Look at that. A spider.”
Cornelia looked and she poured in just the right amount to get the flavor of the liquor but not enough to sustain the high. She’d gotten Uncle Josiah sobered up against his will that way quite a few times. The trick was to ease the drunk into it. Never rush the unwilling or they’d do a runner. She’d made that mistake and had to hunt Uncle Josiah down in the seedy riverfront bars of St. Louis five hours before Uncle Nicolai’s wedding. It was a nightmare.
“Here you go,” she said, tapping Cornelia’s cup.
The maid peered down into the blackness and Stella thought for a second that she’d go nose down in the brew, but she only wavered before picking up the cup. “I need some Jenever.”
“It’s already in there,” said Stella, screwing on the cap and putting the bottle on the other chair.
Cornelia took a sniff. “Oh, yeah. That’s the stuff.” She took a good drink and relaxed. “It’s been a long day.”
“Has it? I thought the baron was in the country.”
“Who told you that?”
“You did five seconds ago.”
“Oh, well. Yes, he is.”
“Is he ill?”
“Who said that?” demanded Cornelia.
“Nobody. I’m asking,” said Stella with a sigh. This wasn’t going to be fast and she needed fast. Maybe Flore would’ve been better after all. The old lady was sober at the very least.
“He’s gone for a rest. The party wore him out.”
“It was an extravaganza. I’ve heard of parties like that after the last war before the depression, but I never thought I’d see one.”
They talked of the party and the guests while Cornelia sobered up. It was a long road, but about forty minutes later her eyes focused and she asked, “Did you sell that jewelry to that Bikker woman?”
“I tried, but it was going to take some doing.” Stella leaned over to Cornelia conspiratorially and said, “She’s not the brightest bulb and I wanted to get home, so I shipped it off to America. I’m sure they’ll find some gaudy women with new money to buy it.”
“So why are you still here?” Cornelia asked.
“I’m glad you asked,” said Stella. “I could use some help.”
“Is there a finder’s fee involved? I could use the money.”
“I’m sorry about the jewelry, but that’s why I thought of you,” said Stella smoothly although she’d forgotten all about the finder’s fee that Cornelia was so keen on. “My company contacted me for a special buy, so to speak.”
“Really?” Cornelia gripped her cup, eyes alight. “More jewelry?”
“Something more important. Can I count on your discretion?”
“Absolutely.”
“Even from the baron?”
The maid sucked in her lips and weighed her options. “It must be a very special buy.”
“With a fee to match,” said Stella.
“What do I have to do?”
“Send a telegram.”
Cornelia tilted her head to the side, lost her balance, and then nearly tipped herself off the chair. Stella grabbed her, yanking her upright with a laugh. “You should really cut down on the Jenever.”
“I can’t think of a better time to drink than now, can you?”
“As long as you send my telegram, I agree.”
“How could a telegram be so important to you?” asked Cornelia before burping.
“It’s not to me personally. It’s important to my company.” Stella explained about the new-minted Milch family and the need to get them out of the country.
“So, who am I telegramming? I don’t know anyone in government. I could ask the baron to help though.”
“He’s in the country,” said Stella.
“Oh, right.” Cornelia glanced around, looking for a safe place to land. “He’s having a little holiday, a rest.”
“Of course. I want you to telegram Yannj. Can you do that?”
“Yannj? Why in the world?”
Stella reminded Cornelia about the American diplomat in Rotterdam that was so helpful and the maid agreed eagerly. “That’s all you need?”
“That’s it,” said Stella. “Can you do it tonight?”
“Certainly, but how does that get me a finder’s fee?”
“They’re selling me their furniture, a bedroom set. You’ll get the fee for that.” Stella explained what to say in the telegram and had Cornelia, who was still listing to the left, repeat it several times.
“No names. No you. I understand. I’m drunk, not stupid,” she said.
“It’s the drunk I’m worried about.”
Out of the corner of Stella’s eye, she saw him come in, the man with the torn pocket, and loiter around the door. The waiter approached him and then waved his arm over the room, indicating that he could take a seat wherever he liked. The man took off his coat and hat and Stella got a good look. It was definitely the same man. It couldn’t be a coincidence. The only difference was in his expression. It’d been mild and disinterested before as befitted the job he was doing. Now he looked crabby and cold with an inflamed nose as he came into the tables, weaving his way through multiple empty tables to plant himself as close to them as he could without butting up against their table.
Got tired of waiting outside? Ah. Such a shame. Idiot.
“This is important for my job,” said Stella. “I could get a promotion.”
“Really?” Cornelia asked. “It matters that much?”
Stella shrugged. “To somebody.”
“Your client will be happy if you get it done.”
“I think so. I’ve heard he gives bonuses. I could use a bonus and a holiday.”
Cornelia drained her cup and dabbed at the corners of her mouth, very dignified like she hadn’t just been about to fall off her chair. “You deserve a holiday. How long have you been traveling?”
“Months and I’m worn out,” said Stella, finishing her own coffee.
“You look it.”
“Thanks.”
Cornelia laughed. “I didn’t mean it that way, but you’re tired. Who wouldn’t be? You haven’t been home in a long time.”
“I’d like to sleep in my own bed for a change. I can hardly remember what it feels like.”
“Get this thing done and you can go home, right?” Cornelia asked.
“Yes. I just hope they don’t find anything else for me to buy or any more clients,” said Stella.
“You better hurry then. You keep trying to leave and it never works out for you.”
“Maybe I should stop reading their telegrams.”
Cornelia threw up her hands. “Oh, sir, I had no idea there was another client.”
Stella threw up her own hands. “Too bad. I went home.”
The women laughed together and the waiter came over. “More coffee, ladies?”
They looked at each other and Cornelia said, “No, I should get back. Who knows what they’ll get up to if I’m gone too long.”
Stella insisted on paying the bill and the waiter helped them on with their coats. Torn Pocket sat uneasily at his table, picking at the pastry he’d ordered and glancing at his watch.
The waiter opened the door for them and wished them a good afternoon. Stella put on her hat, tweaking the brim while stealing a glance into the café. Torn Pocket was getting up.
“Micheline,” said Cornelia as she buttoned her top button. “Did you see that man at the table next to us?”
“I did. Why?”
“He got awfully close.”
Stella looked up in surprise. “I thought so, too.”
“I think he was trying to listen to our conversation,” said Cornelia.
“Do you? Why?”
“Because I know him. He works for Jan Bikker. He does security for his hotels.”
Well, how do you like that.
“That’s concerning,” said Stella.
“And he came to see the baron.”
Stella hooked her arm through Cornelia’s and they walked toward the corner. “What did the baron say?”
“Nothing. He was already in the country. Kraan—he’s the butler—answered the door. I heard them talking. His name is Mussert and he was asking about you.”
They stopped at the corner and hugged. Torn Pocket came out of the café and dawdled by the door, fiddling with his coat and hat. He might be security, but he was not a professional.
“What did Kraan say about me?”
Cornelia chuckled. “He said he didn’t know you.”
“I guess that makes sense. I’ve only been to the baron’s that once and today, of course.”
“Oh, he knows who you are. He’s a servant. It’s his business to know who the baron’s guests are, but he wouldn’t tell that klojo a thing about the baron’s friends.”
“Or yours?” Stella asked.
“Or mine.”
They exchanged cheek kisses.
“Should I send the name to your hotel?” Cornelia asked.
“I’ll come to the house when I need the name,” said Stella.
“He’s watching us.”
“I know.”
The women parted ways, going in opposite directions. Cornelia went home to the baron’s to get Yannj’s address and Stella toward Father Schoffelmeer’s church. She wasn’t entirely sure where Torn Pocket would go. He could be suspicious of Cornelia and think she was more important, so Stella stopped to dig in her handbag for a small tin of mints. Torn Pocket stopped half a block from her and looked in the window of a tailor shop that had gone out of business.
Honestly. A shuttered shop? You’re pathetic.
Stella popped a mint in her mouth and checked the time. It was an unnecessary delay and she was so worn out, but she enjoyed tormenting him. He deserved it. He’d ruined her plans. Clearly, he thought she was some dumb, middle-aged woman who couldn’t possibly notice what a stealthy man like himself was up to and it galled her. She had half a mind to stomp right up and tell him how lousy he was at the job he was probably being paid way too much to do, but she couldn’t. She had to let him think he was good and cement the idea that she was no one special, just a woman doing a job she didn’t want to do.
She tucked her handbag in the crook of her arm and walked down the street, turning twice. Then she peered up at a street sign, looked around to backtrack but turned the wrong way on the right street. Stella led Mussert aka Torn Pocket around the back streets of Amsterdam for an hour, feigning confusion, and pulling out a small map, time and time again to no avail. She hoped he’d get sick of her stupidity and give up so she could make her way to Father Schoffelmeer, but unskilled or not, he just kept following. He was getting irritated though. Her glimpses of his face showed her his nose running and grim expression. And he was getting closer, no longer bothering to keep even a remotely reasonable distance. Once when she spun around to change direction, she’d run right into him. After she apologized, she’d hurried off with her map and there he was right behind.
After an hour of this song and dance, she began to get worried that his frustration would boil over and he’d march up to give her a good crack on the head to put himself out of his misery. He had that kind of face and it had been an hour, plenty of time to convince him that she was a dizzy broad up to nothing much, so Stella went into a bar and asked directions, even bringing the barman outside so he could literally point her in the right direction. There was Mussert, standing on the corner blowing his nose into a sopping handkerchief and looking like he would cheerfully strangle kittens if he could just be done with her.
It was time.
She thanked the barman and tipped him before finding her way back to the Hotel Krasnapolsky. The priest would have to wait. Maybe it was better at that. She could find him at the rectory in the evening after his day was done. He wouldn’t be happy, but it couldn’t be helped.
When she got back, Daan rushed over to open the door for her and said, “Chilly evening.”
“It is. I’m glad to be back.”
“Business on Sunday?”
“No, just a coffee with a friend. I do love your cafés.”
“They are the best in the country.”
She went inside and found Uncle Josiah at the front desk. He leaned on the polished wood with ankles crossed, looking every bit the pointless playboy he was thought to be and had been most of his life. The clerk smiled up at him and batted her eyelashes. She bought it. Of course, she did. Josiah could flirt with the best of them. Clark Gable had nothing on him and he could do it all day. He probably had, waiting for a glimpse of her.
Stella went to walk past the desk to the elevator and Uncle Josiah looked up, quickly changing his demeanor. She gave him the smallest shake of her head, but he moved for her. Rather than having to snub him, she called out to Ludwik who was sitting in a room behind reception with the door open.
The concierge jerked awake and looked out the door. “Oh, Micheline.”
“I don’t mean to bother you,” she said.
He stifled a yawn. “It’s no bother. I wasn’t…”
Awake.
“…doing anything. What can I help you with?”
“Just some tea. It’s cold out there.” She rubbed her shoulders for effect and Uncle Josiah got the message, going back to the clerk who was saying something about a restaurant with fabulous Oysters Rockefeller. “They’re American, aren’t they?”
“The oysters?” Uncle Josiah grinned at her and she giggled.
“I’ll bring the tea right up,” said Ludwik. “Let me walk you to the elevator.”
Stella was afraid he had more news about Bikker nosing around, but he just wanted to know if she was doing all right.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Why do you ask?”
“You just look so tired.”
She laughed. “You should talk.”
Ludwik ducked his head. “It was a long night.”
“So I gather,” she said. “Have you found out who was in my room yet?”
The concierge’s face got serious. “We have a good idea, but we will be questioning a few more people before we’re sure.”
“That’s fine. I just don’t want it to happen again.”
“Of course not. I’ll have your tea brought up immediately.”
The elevator arrived and she rode up to her floor, chitchatting with a man she didn’t know very well about the invasion like it was a new film coming out. The operator wasn’t terribly concerned. He had faith in the government and oddly in the Nazis. They wouldn’t be so cowardly as to attack a neutral country. The world wouldn’t stand for it. He seemed to forget that the world was standing for just about anything those days, but she didn’t bring it up.
“Have a nice evening, ma’am,” he said with a sweet smile.
“I’m sure I will.” Stella went to her room, tossing her hat and coat on a chair before checking to see if anyone else had been in there rooting around, but everything was as she left it. It was still early, only five, so she ran a bath and tea came before it was even full.
She thanked the young waiter, tipping him well, and then poured her tea.
“Let’s see, shall we?” Stella kicked off her shoes and went to the window with her cup to look out at the square. Sure enough, there he was, miserable as all get out, huddled by a cab and going nowhere.
Stella sipped her piping hot tea and he shivered while staring at the front door as if that were the only door. Idiot.