City of Ghosts (A Miranda Corbie Mystery) (20 page)

No sign of Rick.

Stepped quickly, deliberately down O’Farrell, beading on the dress heavier than she remembered. Practiced the walk, up and back, hips swaying, intoxicatingly feminine under the boyish illusion of fourteen years and a lifetime ago. She pursed her lips, ignored the eyes. Breathed in the carnation and iris of L’Heure Bleue.

Marion Gouchard, not Miranda Corbie.

Hoped like hell she could pull it off.

She sashayed toward the burly doorman, who’d been watching her. He grinned, raised two thick callused fingers to his cap, and opened the door. The short, thin man at the elevator held a stiff sheet of paper in his hands and asked in a voice as clipped as his mustache: “Your name, Madame?”

Small, precise, just like Goebbels, the small precise man who labeled Matisse and Renoir “degenerate.”

She flicked her eyes up and down over his navy blue double-breasted suit, languorous puff on the cigarette. Blew smoke over his right shoulder, watched the pale skin under his mustache turn red.

She lowered her voice, soft roll to the
r
’s.

“Marion Gouchard. French consulate.”

One Mississippi, two Mississippi, while he scanned the list, and she prayed James had come through for her.

The short man frowned. She held her breath.

“Your name appears on the list in pencil, Madame. You perhaps did not respond to the invitation in time, yes?”

She shrugged. “I was away on business. You know how it is.”

He nodded, adding a check to her name with a mechanical pencil. “Please—the elevator. Tenth-floor ballroom.”

She nodded back, not bothering to add a wiggle when she walked into the elevator.

Inhuman Nazi bureaucrats.

A noise at the entrance signaled the arrival of a woman in a mink stole and a balding shipping tycoon, and the man with the list turned toward them with an ingratiating smile.

She pushed the button with a manicured finger, wishing her nails were longer, wishing the elevator door would hurry the fuck up. It slowly closed while the West Coast Fascist brigade chattered about the Fair and how hot Panama is in the summer. The gold doors finally locked together, and the elevator began to rise.

Miranda breathed out, heart pounding in her temples.

Next floor, Nazi Germany.

*   *   *

The elevator opened in an ornate foyer, gilded Ionic columns and a huge glass vase of calla lilies. Miranda opened her purse and pulled out the small black domino mask, securing it around her ears.

Double doors were thrown open to the right, din of conversation and on-the-beat swing. A booming bass guffaw punctuated the music, along with shrill, well-bred tittering.

Miranda kept to the shadows and angled for a view. The ballroom was sunken, a few steps down from the formal entranceway, littered with gold candelabra and crystal chandeliers. Oil paintings—Miranda spotted what looked like a Cranach—hung in niches between Corinthian pilasters. An unobtrusive portrait of Hitler glared at the crowd from the stairway on the far left. The small orchestra clung to the grand piano in the corner, playing a lackluster version of “Little Brown Jug.”

The room stank of socialites and businessmen from the Chamber of Commerce, industrialists who frothed at the mouth whenever FDR or the New Deal was mentioned. Most were dressed in French court costume, the women with sagging breasts pushed up and powdered, faces masked, men in wigs and itchy leggings. Paul Dietrich, vice president of Bank of America, stood around nervously watching the crowd, sipping a highball every few seconds and surreptitiously scratching his ass.

Fritz Wiedemann and his mistress-Princess Stephanie von Hohenlohe-Waldenburg-Schillingsfürst, held court in the center, Hitler’s favorite adjutant and former commanding officer and the Jewish woman the Fuehrer called “dear princess.” Hard to believe the ugly, middle-aged hostess in pink was considered one of the most dangerous women in the country.

Weidemann stood like the Colossus of Rhodes, laugh booming across the room. Tall, athletic, with a heavy brow and pugilistic chin, he looked just like the photos in the
Life
magazine spread from the year before, a better-bred and more polished Max Schmeling. He laughed constantly, bending over shriveled hands draped in diamonds, bending farther when the cleavage belonged to a woman under forty. White teeth, strong hands, charisma of a klieg light. He was wearing a Bavarian folk costume, showing off thick, muscled legs in lederhosen.

A small man with a goatee and small, shifty eyes hovered over his left elbow. Vice Consul Rudolf G. Hübner, appropriately dressed as a medieval squire, ready to prompt his superior’s memory by a whisper in the ear.

Princess Stephanie floated at the consul’s right, wrapped in pink pastel gauzes and an embroidered floral dress out of Grimm’s Fairy Tales. It came complete with a pointed hat and veil, weak weapons against the dragons of age. She was pushing fifty, according to reports, same age as her Prince Charming, but he looked ten years younger and she knew it.

The elevator made a lurching noise and started to move down, Miranda quickly scanning the rest of the room. A tall, thin man leaned against the balustrade, studying a landscape. He was dressed in a robe covered in chemical symbols, hands gloved, with a domino mask and a fake gray beard.

Dr. Jasper.

Time to charge the battlefield.

*   *   *

Miranda strode to the entranceway and struck a pose, arm up and hand on the door frame, leaning into her hips. Half-closed her eyelids, dark smoky shadow enhancing the mask.

She stood for a few seconds, heart beating loud enough to drown out the music.

And turned on the wattage.

Wiedemann was already staring; the princess flung her head around, whispering something to an overweight matron stuffed into a Heidi costume.

A cough, a few misplaced laughs. No music from the orchestra.

She gave a tilt to her chin, held her head up high, and shifted again, heavy beads making a swooshing sound, refracting the brittle light from the crystal chandeliers.

Stutters … then silence.

Wiedemann gracefully parted the crowd.

The consul climbed the five steps up from the main floor, oozing a sexual appetite rank enough to smell. She’d heard on the circuit at Dianne’s about Wiedemann’s prodigious appetites and equally prodigious appendage—supposedly the real reason why Der Führer idolized him. Her stomach tightened, and she tried not to flinch.

His eyes glinted as he took in her legs. Clicked his heels as she held out her hand and he bent over it, murmuring, accent thick: “I do not think we meet yet.”

Vice Consul Hübner scurried forward, hands rubbing together, English impeccable.

“What Consul Wiedemann means is that we have not seen you before at one of our social events, Mademoiselle. May we inquire as to your name?”

Miranda smiled, pulling her hand away from Wiedemann’s paw, letting her fingers drag against his coarse skin.

“Marion Gouchard. I am with the French embassy. Or perhaps we should rename it now,
oui
?”

Some of the surrounding crowd grew quiet, faux pas to mention the war at a social occasion. Wiedemann blinked, then roared with laughter, rough hand clapped against Miranda’s bare back, heavy arm resting casually on her shoulder. She smiled up at him.

She was in.

Eighteen

Muted laughter and the tinkle of Austrian crystal goblets, middle-aged matrons dressed as Marie Antoinette comparing stories of Magnin minks, whispering the latest Eleanor Roosevelt joke. Men in powdered wigs relaxed with a whiskey and talk about the market, lips wrapped around thick cigars, swearing the usual exhortations to God to save America from the Communist in the White House. Husbands and wives craned necks to get a better look at the woman in the red flapper dress, silver lamé bow outlining her hips.

A younger man, tall and costumed like a Prussian officer, bowed over her hand and murmured something in German while Wiedemann grinned, teeth showing.

“This is Hans. My assistant.”

Miranda nodded, making pleasantries, surreptitiously looking for Jasper. He’d moved on from the landscape to one of the Cranachs on the opposite wall.

Stephanie floated toward the forgotten shipping couple standing in the doorway looking lost, the balding, white-haired businessman red faced and irritated. Wiedemann trained his full attention on “Marion.” Hübner, ever watchful, signaled to the orchestra. They launched into a spiritless version of “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.”

The consul grinned down at Miranda again, fatuous, transparent. He guided her toward the corner, arm exerting pressure against her back.

“Please. You call me Fritz,
ja
?”

She let her eyelids drop provocatively. “And you must call me Marion. Though I confess I prefer to think of you as ‘Captain Fritz.’”

Wiedemann opened his eyes wide, surprised, guffawed again.

The room stank of mothballs and Ambre Antique, Havana cigars and Shalimar. Miranda wrinkled her nose and fought off a sneeze. Most eyes were still trained on her, whispers behind fans. Wiedemann continued to lead her forward, and she glanced toward the ornate stairway.

No Jasper.

Goddamn it—she’d lost him.

Stephanie, signaled by the ever helpful Hübner, glided like a Ziegfeld Girl down the steps toward her Fritzie, pink tulle flowing, arms outstretched, ferocious smile.

Wiedemann stiffened, dropped his arm from Miranda’s back.

“May I present Fraulein—Mademoiselle—Marion Gouchard, my dear Steffie.”

Miranda’s lips curved at the corners as she extended her hand to the hostess.

“An honor to meet you, Madame.”

Miranda caught at the intelligence in the ugly face and knew the woman in pink was more than a cut-rate Wallis Simpson. Hard and coarse looking like her Windsor twin, the princess had actually arranged the meeting with Hitler and the Duke and Duchess three years before. Small black eyes, shrewd, merciless—and perceptive. They darted back and forth, taking in the minutiae of Miranda’s makeup and wig. Miranda fought the rising color in her cheeks, feeling more clothed with Wiedemann.

“And you, Miss Gouchard. I must reprimand Consul General Gaucheron for keeping you to himself … I have not seen you at any of the parties this season.”

Miranda opened her eyes ingenuously. “Oh, but Madame, I have been so very busy. And we must be honest … our consulate has not been so eager to attend your consulate’s parties. We do not dance on the grave of the Maginot Line.”

A few titters, sudden quiet again, room frosty and shocked. Stephanie glared at her, mouth quivering, while Wiedemann looked on helplessly, face florid and embarrassed. The band was struggling with “It Had to Be You,” trying to play louder to cover the silence.

Miranda’s smile stayed in place, while she removed a cigarette from the gold case, trembling hands hidden. No one stepped forward to light it, so she clicked the Ronson, inhaled deeply.

Spoke casually. “But, as they say, in love and war all is fair. And now we must all learn to speak German …
ja
?”

The room sighed with relief, Wiedemann roared again, and the princess narrowed her eyes and widened her lips. Resumption of cocktail conversation.

Well, of all the nerve—

She’s honest, though … I give her that.

All the Frenchies know is wine and cheese and women. The Germans will teach them a thing or two.

I’ve heard Stephanie’s fifty-five if she’s a day … and Fritzie’s got a wandering eye …

Wiedemann’s eye wandered back to Miranda. Hans, his Prussian officer’s uniform as stiff as a nutcracker, stood at attention, close to her right. A tired waiter appeared, summoned by Hübner.

“Drink, Mademoiselle?”

Miranda smiled pointedly at the princess. “I’ll have whatever the princess is having.”

The waiter bowed, retreated. Stephanie laughed lightly.

“Be careful, Mademoiselle Gouchard. It may be too strong for you.”

Miranda shrugged. “I am young and resilient, Madame. I am willing to try … anything.”

Stephanie studied Miranda’s face. The fat woman dressed as Heidi plucked her sleeve, and the princess turned to greet another party of latecomers at the doorway, firing a parting shot over her shoulder.

“We have a saying in Germany, my dear: Ambition and fleas both jump high.”

Miranda blew a smoke ring high in the air toward the chandelier and nodded, smiling.

“There is a French proverb, too, Madame.
On n’apprend pas aux vieux singes à faire des grimaces.
You cannot teach old monkeys to make new faces.”

The pink tulle flounced, train dancing in the air, pointed hat making its way through the crowd, as Princess Stephanie retreated from the field of battle, smile glued ferociously in place.

*   *   *

Wiedemann stationed himself at her right hand, animatedly discussing his car (a Mercedes), his favorite restaurant in San Francisco (Schroeder’s Café), his fondness for English suits (“easier to acquire when we win the war!”), his patriotic yearning for Augsburg and wistful nostalgia for the farm he left behind. No mention of Mexico, Los Angeles, or Herbert Hoehne.

He took out his pocket handkerchief and blew his nose, tearing up over farm equipment and Bavarian milkmaids. She patted his hand and smiled, smoked more Chesterfields than she could count, drank two Scotch and sodas.

No sign of the man in the alchemist robe.

Miranda glanced up the stairway from her vantage point in the corner. Only place Jasper could have gone. The landing at the top was dark, maybe three doors, maybe four. Only Hübner and Loeper, the consulate chancellor, used the stairway freely.

She’d need a reason.

The crowd was starting to break up, and Paul Dietrich gave her a distant nod as he left, eyes grave. Some local businessmen, not in costume, paid their respects to the consul, more cool than warm, maintaining a Swiss neutrality. A burly man in his thirties, dressed in a Union Civil War uniform, positioned himself in the corner, watching the departing guests. She wondered who he was.