Aubrielle's Call (24 page)

CHAPTER 32

May 14, 1940

John straightened his tie and brushed a speck of glitter from his lapel. Bonet’s latest acts fluttered around like messy little birds. He pushed the dressing room curtain aside and brushed another bit of sparkle from his suit sleeve.

The small troop of five dancing girls chatted in costume beside the backstage stairs. Their eyelids glistened with glitter. Their costumes, stockings, and shoes sparkled. Their dazzling attire left a trail wherever they went.

I’ll leave my suit in Henry’s room until their contract is over.

John edged around them and entered the club. He was later than usual.
La Fleur Chantante
had already opened their doors for the Tuesday night crowd.

Webber manned the entrance tonight, directing newcomers as they entered the venue. Each time the door opened, a gust of rain followed the guests and their umbrellas inside.

John circled the catwalk and stepped up to join Henri, Marcel, and
Monsieur
Bonet at their elevated booth. “
Bonsoir.
”

“
Bonsoir,
John. Have a seat.” Bonet sipped his Bordeaux.
“Have you been to see your youn
g
fiancée
? M
ore importantly, did you speak with
Madame
Moroney? Did she mention my name?”

“
Madame
Moroney always asks after your health.” John slid into the booth and chuckled at Bonet. “She begged me to give you her regards.”

Behind Bonet, Henri scrunched his eyes closed and shook his head.

John’s grin grew wide.

“
Une belle femme
,” Bonet replied with a sigh. He took another sip of his drink.
“Elle est magnifique.”

Despite
Monsieur
Bonet’s good mood this evening, patronage at
La Fleur Chantante
continued to decline. Germany’s advance into Belgium and the Netherlands had caused troop redeployment for those soldiers stationed in Paris. A good third of Bonet’s business came from servicemen, both French and British. The thin crowd this night proved that point.

An hour later, the lights dimmed and a spotlight lit the stage.

The band paused, and the small crowd hushed as the curtains split in the middle and drew open. The vaudevillian dancers pranced forward in their sparkling costumes, bowed and then linked arms as the band struck up a lively tune.

“I miss Toola,” Bonet muttered. He clipped the ends of his cigar and lit the stogie.

Webber, still at the club entrance waved, toward their table.

John gave Web a nod of acknowledgment and leaned toward Bonet. “Someone’s coming up.” He stood, buttoning his jacket and waited by the steps.

A uniformed officer glanced at John and came to a halt, one foot on the stair. “John Larson?”

John’s brow lifted in surpris
e. “
Oui
. I am John L
arson.”

“
Un télégramme pour vous, monsieur.
” The young officer held out an official tan envelope.

“
Merci
.” John took the telegram from the young man’s outstretched hand.

The officer gave a nod, did an about-face, and returned to the exit.

Webber looked from the messenger’s back to John and shrugged.

“What does it say?” Henri asked.

John glanced up from the folded missive as he returned to the booth.

“Who’s it from?” Bonet blew smoke toward the ceiling.

John sat and turned the document over. The seal held the official stamp of the
Bureau de la Sûreté nationale
. “I think it’s from François,” he guessed out loud. His thumb slipped into the opening above the seal and hesitated.

François and Billy had disappeared into the hospital the night they rescued François from Karl Reimer. The next day, no one had any record of their arrival. They hadn’t been heard from since. For François to send a missive now left a block of ice in John’s gut.

Bonet looked over at the letter. “Our missing friend has been detained?”

“I don’t know.” John broke the seal and opened the telegram. Inside, the message had been written in English with blue ink. “It’s from Billy,” he told them.

“Are they all right?” Henri walked around the booth to the front of the table.

“I’ll read it.” John held the letter flat and angled it toward the table lamp. “In good health, we send our regards. We depart soon for the Azure Coast and urge you to consider a holiday retreat to the south. William Bane”

“That’s it?” Bonet dropped his cigar in the tray and raised his glass. “A smuggler’s holiday plans announced by a telegram from
la Sûreté nationale
. Absurd.”

John looked up at Henri.

“Let me see.” Henri held his hand out for the telegram. “At least they’re both well and leaving for the French Riviera. It sounds as though they would like for you to join them.”

John handed the telegram to Henri. “François and Billy plan to leave Paris. I suspect they have information about the war we do not.”

An uneasy tingle on the back of John’s neck intensified, clawing its way down his spine. He gasped as a sharp shiver shook the foundation of his soul.

Dear God, no.

Movement inside the club ceased. Held captive by an ancient curse. By a call.

Aubrielle.

The waitress beside their table had lifted a glass of wine from her tray. Her motion froze. Her smile, fixed and unmoving.

The violinist held his bow poised above the strings, halted in mid-stroke. The music silenced.

The dancer’s twirl hung suspended. Her toes dangled several inches above the wooden stage. Glitter spun away from her dress and hung motionless in the air.

Inside John’s head pain expanded, crushing all his other senses.

Then movement resumed. Sound returned. The agony in his head diminished to a single blistering point on the side of his skull. He blinked at Henri through panicked tears and came to his feet, gripping the table as a wave of dizziness washed over him. “I’ve got to go.”

“Are you ill?” Bonet sat forward.

Marcel came to his feet and searched the club for an immediate threat, then stared with concern at John.

Henri’s hand steadied John’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Aubrielle.”

* * *

Aubrielle wiped the wineglass dry and put it away in the cupboard. Without pause, she reached for a plate and ran her dishtowel over the wet ceramic.

Mae had retired to the living room after dinner. By unspoken agreement, whoever cooked did not have to help with the dishes.

Instead of the music Aubrielle preferred, Mae had tuned in the National News. The war declared last fall had finally begun in earnest.

John’s fear of the war must have affected her. She startled and dropped Mae’s plate when a knock sounded at the back door. The platter shattered into shards at her feet.

“Are you all right, dear?”

“Yes,
Tante
Mae.” She peered through the open curtains on the door.

A man waited on the landing. His back to the glass.

“Who’s at the door?” The chair squeaked in the front room.

“I can’t tell.” Aubrielle tossed the dishtowel over the clean dishes in the sink, wiped her hands on her apron and looked again through the glass.

The man turned slightly and their gazes met. He waved apologetically and shrugged. The dark mark on his chin and neck were visible in the light from the hall.

“It’s a customer from the park.” She’d trusted strangers from the park before, and the memory still burned. Aubrielle hesitated. “Should I see what he wants?”

Mae came down the hall and studied the man through the door. “I don’t see why not. Perhaps he wants to place an order for tomorrow morning.”

The man smiled and waved at the women through the glass.

Aubrielle stepped forward, unlocked and opened the door. “
Bonsoir
. Puis-je vous aider?
”

* * *

“I’ve got to go.” John shrugged off Henri’s hand. “Something’s happened to Aubrielle.”

“How would you know that?” Henri asked.

“Marcel, you’re in charge until I return.” Bonet slid from the booth with the grace of a much thinner man. He tossed Henri the keys to his car. “You shall drive. You know the quickest way.”

The three men threaded their way around the tables and rushed through the back rooms. Maurice Bonet parked his vehicle close to the rear entrance.

Henri turned the ignition. “Ready?” He glanced at Maurice.

“
Oui. Allons-y!
” Maurice moved to the middle of the back seat and leaned forward between John and Henri. “Mae is with young Aubrielle.”

Henri couldn’t drive fast enough for John. The stinging needle above his brow throbbed out the seconds. “Here! Turn here.”

Henri took the turn a bit too fast, and the tires squealed. Streetlights reflected off the wet pavement, but the windshield remained dry.

The car slid to a halt in the middle of the
ruelle
behind the bakery. The back door to Mae’s home stood open.

John raced up the steps and into the house.

A smear of blood marked the wall. A plate lay shattered on the kitchen floor.

Maurice huffed into the house behind John. “Where are they?”

Over the voice of the newscaster, they heard a muffled thump.

John tried to open the washroom door, but the latch wouldn’t budge. “Mae?” he yelled. The sting on the side of his head told him Aubrielle was gone.

Another muffled thump, and John stepped back, kicking the handle and shattering the frame. The door swung open.

Maurice pushed past John and fell to his knees beside the bathtub.

A knotted dishtowel had been forced into Mae’s mouth and tied behind her head. Her nose bled over the white cloth. She lay on her side in the tub. Her hands tied behind her back. Her furious eyes rimmed with tears.

Maurice untied the gag, tossed it aside and worked the knotted twine around her wrists.

The urge to follow the point of pain marking the path to Aubrielle tore at John’s mind as his sight locked with Mae’s.

“He came for Aubrielle, John. He forced her to tie me up.” Her fierce anger faltered, and she uttered a sob as Maurice lifted her to her feet. “He had a gun.”

“Who had a gun?” Dread punched John in the stomach. He knew.
He knew.

“I don’t know.” Mae clung to Maurice as he helped her from the tub. “Aubrielle said she knew him from the park.” She hugged Maurice then her eyes went wide. “He had a birthmark or scar on his neck and face.” Her hand trembled as she held it to her neck.

“Karl Reimer.
Le salaud.
” Henri pressed past John and handed Maurice a washcloth.
“Where are you going?” He called at the empty doorway.

“To get Aubrielle,” John replied over his shoulder.

“John. Wait.” Henri followed him onto the back porch. “I’ll go with you.”

“No. Maurice and Mae need you here. I can find Aubrielle.” He started down the steps, then turned to Henri. “If you can leave Paris, do so. Go south, like Billy said.” He reached out and grasped Henri’s hand.

How much can I tell him? What will he believe?

“France will surrender to Germany by midsummer. There will be German troops in Paris, Hitler himself, by this time next month.”

“John, how can you possibly know this?” Henri gripped John’s hand, his brows drawn together in dismay.

“I just do.” He returned to the porch and wrapped Henri in a hug. “Take care of yourself,” John whispered. “Take care of Mae and Maurice.”

“You won’t be back?” Henri called. “John?”

Seized with a sudden premonition of horror, John ran down the steps.

Nescato or Hitler. Which would be worse?

It didn’t matter. Whichever evil Karl raced toward would mean Aubrielle’s death.

I can’t lose her now
.

He hesitated at the gate and looked up at his apartment window.
There are things I need.
He dodged past Bonet’s car, rounded the building and took the stairs to his apartment two at a time. From beneath the bed, he pulled the two Thompson submachine guns. Both had a half magazine remaining. He rolled the weapons in a sheet.

He opened the top dresser drawer and stared for a moment at the hand-carved box beside
his gun and holster.