The Hotel d’Angleterre in the Rue Jacob was a long way from the Ritz, both in geography and décor. The chandeliers in the gloomy hallway wore a slight coat of dust, the stone steps with their twisty wrought-iron banisters smelled of cleaning fluid and the gilded chairs in the reception area were showing their age. But Clara’s room, at the back, overlooking the courtyard, was clean enough, papered in faded toile de jouy, with a heavy wooden armoire, a basin prettily tiled with flowered designs and even a bar of soap. She picked it up and sniffed it greedily. It had a fragrance of lemon and cream, so unlike the soap at home that was mostly a rank combination of animal fat overlaid with detergent. After a speculative moment, Clara parcelled the little tablet away in her bag.
She travelled light – she always had – right from her days in repertory theatre in London, so there was not much to unpack. Once she had removed her clean underwear from the suitcase and hung her fresh blouse in the armoire, she washed, then pulled on dark stockings and a pair of lizard-skin T-straps with a peep toe, and reached for the Madame Grès evening dress.
It was beautiful enough laid out on the bed, but when she put it on it came alive. It fitted perfectly and the material, far from being heavy, moved like gossamer. It looked timeless, as a classic dress should, and it possessed a kind of purity that meant it would never date. The glimmering satin clung to her body, flattering her curves at the bodice and flowing in Grecian folds from the waist.
Next she put on Steffi’s pearl necklace, feeling its unfamiliar weight heavy against her neck, took out a bottle labelled Soir de Paris and touched a dab behind her ears. As the perfume, with its voluptuous notes of vanilla and violet, rose and mingled with the Paris air, it reminded her of Leo, who had loved it, and suddenly it was as though he was standing right there beside her, in the room.
She felt his presence so powerfully that she turned instinctively and stared around her. She felt his smile, his touch, his ironic humour. The shards of gold in his green eyes, the warmth of his arms encircling her. It was as though the whole of his personality had been distilled into an intense and visceral reality.
Was this Leo, or had the force of her longing conjured a phantom out of empty air? Her mind went back to the precious weeks they had spent last year and for the first time she realized that it no longer mattered that she had refused his proposal of marriage. She didn’t require any ring from him. Her commitment was deep inside. A band of longing that tightened round her heart when she thought of him. Despite everything she had been told, she held on to the belief she would see him again.
The Dingo Bar was at 10, Rue Delambre, a small street leading south from the Carrefour Vavin. The key to its success was the barman, Jimmie Charters, a one-time boxer from Liverpool, whose jovial presence drew a loyal crowd of wealthy American and British expatriates. Steps led down from the side of the bar to a nightclub crammed with people, as though all the tension and energy of the streets was somehow contained in this crowded arena full of smoke and heat. The dance floor was surrounded by tiny tables and on the dais, a chanteuse was singing Noël Coward’s Night and Day. It was one of Clara’s favourites, the rhythm tapped out like a heartbeat, its words coiled into her brain:
Whether near to me or far,
No matter, darling, where you are,
I think of you, night and day.
It was almost impossible to move amid the crush of bodies. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, her gaze snagged on Thomas Epstein at the bar, drinking a Negroni. Beside him, the barman was pouring champagne into a glass containing a slice of peach, a sugar cube and brandy and offering it to a rangily beautiful woman with a clear brow and a loud laugh.
‘Who’s that?’ asked Clara, standing next to Epstein at the bar.
‘Lee Miller. Another American. Paris is crammed with them.’
A glance around the bar, at the Brooks Brothers suits and healthy tans, seemed to confirm it.
‘Americans are always more optimistic than the rest of us. They won’t let any war get in the way of their fun. There’s a gossip columnist here, Elsa Maxwell, who has taken to replacing RSVP on her invitations with ICNW. It stands for In Case No War. Amusing, eh?’
‘What about the British? Are they still coming to Paris?’
‘Sure. They don’t dare go to Berlin any more, but Paris is just a hop across the Channel.’
As if on cue, from behind them came a high English voice, strident with self-assurance and too much champagne. Clara turned to see a young woman, her body encased in a metallic silver and jet gown as tight as a bicycle inner tube. There was an empty bottle of champagne at her elbow and she was haranguing an earnest young man, who was braced against the bar, unable to escape. He flinched as she waved her glass in his face.
‘Don’t tell me there’s going to be a war, Jack! What a doom monger you are. Nothing will happen. France lost a million and a half men in the war, can you imagine they will go through that again? For the French, simply having to drink chicory coffee constitutes a major sacrifice.’
‘I recognize that woman,’ said Clara quietly. ‘It’s Dolly Capel. She’s a friend of our family.’
The Capels were a wealthy landowning dynasty, who had been generous donors to the Anglo-German Fellowship. Their support was heartfelt. They were said to keep a Meissen porcelain statuette of a Nazi stormtrooper on their mantelpiece – a present from von Ribbentrop.
As if sensing she was being watched, Dolly wheeled round, double-took and enveloped Clara in a hot embrace, smelling of sweat and Guerlain’s Mitsouko.
‘Clara! Darling! Fancy finding you here! Where’s Angela?’
‘My sister? Certainly not here.’
‘Aren’t you with her? I thought you were with her?’
‘She’s not in Paris, as far as I know.’
‘Isn’t she? Well tell her to come. I’m having a simply glorious time. At least here people refuse to let this war talk cramp their style. There’s a shop window near me where all the mannequins have gas masks over their shoulders with little coloured bows on. Isn’t that just like the French? So elegant. In London it’s all Kirby grips and cardigans. The first hint of war and everyone gets out the sackcloth and ashes.’
‘Are you on holiday here?’ asked Clara, mildly incredulous.
‘Absolutely, darling. And I’m making the most of it. I was booked onto a slimming course at a spa but the staff said war was coming and we would all starve so I thought why bother to do the Germans’ work for them? Besides, everyone’s here. D’you know the Mitfords? I saw Nancy just yesterday. She’s been down in Perpignan in the south with that husband of hers, helping Spanish refugees. They’re in camps there apparently, on the border, and Nancy had to drive a Ford van full of supplies. Can you imagine? I think it’s tired her out because when I bumped into her in the lift of my hotel she was frightfully short with me.’
Sharing a lift with Dolly Capel would reduce anyone to silence, Clara thought.
‘She said she’s writing a new novel. The pursuit of something. I forget. What’s Nancy pursuing, do you think?’
Peace, probably. But Dolly did not stop for an answer.
‘Anyhow, I’d just been shopping and bought this adorable frock. I thought it was frightfully slimming but Nancy said I looked like I had been swallowed by a boa constrictor. What do you think?’
‘It’s very striking.’
‘Thank you, sweetie. Oh . . .’ As though in an afterthought, Dolly turned to the man beside her and said, ‘Have you met Jack? Perhaps I should introduce you two. Clara Vine, this is Jack Kennedy. His father’s the American ambassador.’
The young man standing before Clara was exceptionally thin, with a square-jawed, pale face and a broad smile that revealed flawless American teeth. A row of dazzling ivory as regular as piano keys, the kind you never saw in European mouths, filtering black tea and rough tobacco. His expression, too, had an earnest optimism about it that seemed unique to his nation. The family of Joe Kennedy, the American ambassador to London, had cut a swathe through English society and Angela had frequently relayed how glamorous they were and how good at tennis.
He looked at Clara gratefully, scenting escape.
‘We haven’t met,’ she said, taking his hand, ‘but you’ve met my sister Angela Mortimer.’
His skinny frame belied his strength. His handshake was strong enough to crack a safe.
‘So you’re Angela Mortimer’s sister! Are you just over from England too?’
He pulled over a bar stool, took out a pack of Gauloises, leaned forward and flipped a lighter.
‘Berlin actually.’
‘A tourist?’
‘I live there.’
He was instantly focused.
‘As it happens, I’m just back from Danzig and Warsaw.’
‘What did you make of it?’
‘The Poles were dreading a Nazi attack, but I’m not sure. And even if it came, would the Poles really fight over Danzig?’
‘Everything’s politics with Jack,’ said Dolly, bored already. ‘Don’t expect any chat, Clara. He doesn’t make small talk.’ She turned to leave, doodling a finger on Clara’s shoulder.
‘If you do run into Angela, ask her to look me up. I’m at the Montalembert.’
As Dolly disappeared, Clara turned back to the young man with his wide smile and quiet intensity. She guessed that as an ambassador’s son, Jack Kennedy might be privy to more information than a regular tourist. Softly she said, ‘Yes. I think the Poles will fight. And they’ll lose.’
Kennedy sighed, and rubbed his lower back. Perhaps the complexities of what he had witnessed in his tour of Europe had taken a physical toll.
‘You know, Miss Vine, at one time I genuinely believed that Fascism was right for Germany and Italy. Their freeways were so impressive. The societies were orderly. I thought their evils were nothing compared with Communism. Now, I’m not so sure. I’m still trying to understand the fascination that surrounds Hitler. Do you understand it?’
Clara thought of the cheering birthday crowd that she had stood in so recently, and the Führer shrine in the home of Lotti Franke.
‘A little.’
Something about the expression on Kennedy’s face, the earnestness in his eyes, roused in Clara a passionate desire to explain. Here was an American, the son of a very influential figure, who had, until recently, believed that Fascism was the right answer for Europe. Now he was asking her opinion. She must do everything in her power to let him know what the Nazi regime was really like. And yet . . . how much could she tell him, without compromising herself? Even here in Paris, even in the depths of a backstreet bar in Montparnasse, the Gestapo were entrenched. She recalled Epstein’s warning. Don’t say anything that could compromise you here. The Gestapo are everywhere already. They’re deciding who to arrest if war comes.
She couldn’t stop herself.
‘If you’d seen Hitler’s birthday parade you would know the extent of his ambitions. He’s mobilized two million men. He won’t hesitate to attack Poland, if he thinks he can get away without the Soviet Union, Britain or France intervening.’
‘But that’s precisely what will stop him, isn’t it? The Soviet Union.’
‘I’m not so sure. We’re far too complacent about that. There’s speculation about a pact between Germany and Russia.’
‘Coming from a family like mine that’s always jawing about politics, I know that some people will speculate about anything. Doesn’t mean it’s going to happen.’
‘It might. And if it did, it would allow Hitler to continue his aggression towards the rest of Europe.’
‘The French seem very confident about their Maginot Line.’
‘Only because they underestimate the National Socialists. Don’t let yourself do the same, Mr Kennedy.’
Her mind went back to the document she had seen the previous year. A document which gave first-hand evidence that the leader of Germany did not intend to stop at achieving further Lebensraum for his people. That revealed in unambiguous terms Hitler’s ambitions to exterminate the entire Jewish race.
‘Their plans for the Jews go beyond anything you can imagine.’
She felt her voice rising, in her effort to persuade him.
‘Your father’s so influential. Please, go back to London, and beg him not to be deceived about the Nazis. Their ambitions are horrifying, and their efficiency is astonishing. It’s a savage, monstrous regime which poses a danger to the whole world.’
She picked up a beer mat and scribbled a name on the underside.
‘There’s an American journalist you must speak to. Her name is Mary Harker.’
‘Where would I find her?’
‘She stays at the Adlon in Berlin. She interviewed Goering just the other day. She’ll tell you how it is.’
At that point both of Kennedy’s arms were seized from behind and he was half-lifted into the air. His captors were a pair of young women who dragged him from his bar stool, laughing and beseeching him to join their table. Apologetically, Kennedy gave Clara a swift wave, and disappeared.
‘Bright lad.’ Epstein materialized at Clara’s side. ‘His father uses him as an unofficial diplomat. Probably the only diplomatic thing ever found at the Dingo.’
Already Clara was cursing herself for having spoken out.
‘I hope I didn’t talk too freely.’
Epstein regarded her closely.
‘I’m sure he was listening, whatever you said.’
‘He seemed quite relieved to escape.’
‘He’s probably a little wary of German actresses right now. His father Joe’s been having an affair for months with Marlene Dietrich at the Grand Hotel du Cap down on the Côte d’Azur. In fact, you’re lucky you met the son and not the father. Joe’s unstoppable. They say he sleeps with the friends of his daughters and the daughters of his friends, and just about every Hollywood starlet he can get his hands on.’
Suddenly Clara felt dizzy with the music, the colours and the press of people. Speaking English, not to mention speaking her mind, had been intoxicating, but ditching her normally cautious persona, even for a few minutes, had left her feeling exposed and disorientated. Bidding goodnight to Epstein she made her way up the narrow stairs and went to collect her coat.
The coat check girl had a sharp face, with kohl-lined eyes and heavily lacquered lips. She was wearing a modest little outfit with white collar and cuffs, but the modesty only extended as far as the briefest of skirts and a pair of fishnet stockings. As she handed over the coat she gave Clara a conspiratorial wink.
‘You have an admirer, mademoiselle.’
‘I shouldn’t think so.’
After the talk of Joe Kennedy, Clara was in no mood for admirers.
‘He was certainly very interested in you.’
‘Who was?’
The girl gave a slow, crimson smile.
‘A gentleman. He left just now. You’ll catch him if you hurry. If you want to catch him, that is.’
‘I’m pretty sure I don’t.’
‘Shame. He looked nice.’
Was this how all Parisiennes behaved, thought Clara? As though they were duty bound to establish an assignation? Sex, and the possibility of it, was never far from their thoughts. Perhaps that was the unspoken code of Paris.
The girl leaned over the counter, with a surge of sweat and perfume. Her breath smelled of French tobacco and garlic.
‘I didn’t hear him speak but he was foreign, I think.’
A sudden spark of excitement leapt in her. A foreign man had been looking at her. Could it possibly be Leo? Was that sense of him in the hotel a premonition? Some kind of subliminal awareness that he was near?
‘If he didn’t speak, how could you tell he was foreign?’
The girl pursed her lips into a magnificent pout at her expertise being called into question and gave a shrug that expressed her absolute conviction.
‘I know a Frenchman when I see one and this man was certainly not French.’
It had to be him! Surely this was why Major Grand had set up a meeting in Paris. He wanted to direct her to the place where Leo could be found.
‘What did he look like?’
‘He was wearing a Loden coat. No Frenchman wears a coat like that.’
But Leo did.
‘There was a look about him,’ the girl added. ‘He was interested in you. A woman can tell.’
Her pulse quickening, Clara bundled on her jacket and dropped a pourboire into the saucer.
‘Which way did he go?’
‘He turned left at the top of the stairs. Heading towards the Boulevard du Montparnasse. It was a few minutes ago. You’ll have to hurry if you want to catch him.’
As Clara emerged from the narrow stairway, the breath of raw night air hit her face. She looked the length of the street but there was no familiar figure of Leo waiting on the corner. Even from a distance, she felt sure she would recognize that brush of red-gold hair, and lean, sinewy frame, the hands, as always, plunged deep in his pockets. Decisively, she turned towards the Boulevard du Montparnasse and onto the Boulevard Raspail.
Paris at night, without a map to guide her and only the memory of a single previous visit to orientate herself, was a chiaroscuro world. The city of lights was unrecognizable in darkness. Restaurants were beginning to close, and shadows piled on shadows, deepening like layers of indigo gauze. Lamps cast pools of light on the pavements but between the high-sided buildings, narrow alleyways receded into blackness. Clara had memorized the route back to the Rue Jacob, but how, in this darkened city, amid unfamiliar streets, did she even begin to look for a single man in a Loden overcoat? Should she turn left, or right? Her only thought was to head in the direction of her hotel. If Leo had found her at the bar, perhaps he also knew where she was staying.
In the Latin Quarter faint traces of jazz leaked out of the basement bars and the bright neon of La Coupole hung in the still night air. She passed the vast shadows of the Luxembourg gardens, scanning the streets around her constantly. The ghost of Leo was around every corner. Memory played tricks and sleights of hand, so that several times she thought she saw a familiar building, only to discover when she came closer that she had taken entirely the wrong turn.
At last she saw him. A figure in a Loden coat and hat, striding swiftly, a hundred metres away. Too far to hear her if she called. But almost as soon as she had glimpsed him, he was swallowed behind a passing van. She hurried on, her heart bursting with excitement. It was odd to be the pursuer rather than the pursued. She was so accustomed to the idea of surveillance that she had often thought herself into the shadow’s mind. How to hang back when approaching the quarry. Never get too close, yet never lose sight of the target. But this chase was different. Clara actually wanted to catch up, but the figure ahead of her seemed determined to evade her pursuit.
Towards St Germain, as the severe geometry of the mellow stone buildings gave way to a labyrinth of cobbled streets, following became trickier. Clara had lied when she told Goebbels that she didn’t need spectacles. In truth, it was getting harder to see distant objects at night. In the darkness the faces of passers-by loomed dim and indistinct like figures in a painting by Edvard Munch. A drunk stumbled into a doorway. She turned her ankle on the cobbles – her heels were too high – and wished passionately that she had not chosen to wear the silk dress, which was now damp and flecked with dirt at the hem. Still she ploughed on, turning back once or twice to re-orientate herself until, eventually, she drew to a halt beside the shuttered grill of a shop. It was plain that the man she was following was lost from sight, and what was more, she had no idea where she was. She decided to retrace her steps to the nightclub. At the very least, there she could find a taxi and return to the hotel in the Rue Jacob.
Just then, out of the corner of her eye she caught it. The whisk of a coat around a corner. She glanced down a thin alleyway, no wider than an arm’s stretch, and saw him again, slipping like a blade of shadow until, at the end, the view opened up to the broad span of the Seine and the man before her had vanished.
He must have crossed the river. Clara walked swiftly across the Pont des Arts towards the classical façade of the Louvre and into the Cour Carrée, the magnificent cobbled courtyard in the western wing. Then, at last, she saw him. Leaning against the pillar, his exaggerated shadow lying diagonal along the ground, his overcoat slung elegantly like a cloak over his shoulders. As he cupped his hand to light a cigarette, the flame leapt up to his face and she realized that it wasn’t Leo at all.
‘Fräulein Vine. What a surprise to see you here.’
It was the handsome, sardonic face of Conrad Adler.