Remember Paris

Chapter 5

September 21 1909

Dispatch: to Head of Special Branch, Scotland Yard

All inquiries have been fruitless. Duclos, Depard, Montclair have all disappeared without a trace. Krause left for Brussels today. Mutterlich has a ticket for the train to Berlin tomorrow. The trail is cold. Awaiting further instruction.

Percival Boyd

She never came back.
Well, then she must have escaped.
Not from those people, John.

Marguerite sat dejected at the train station. The noon train had come and gone. She had traded in the tickets in exchange for ones on an evening train to Lyons. When that train left the platform, she crumpled the ticket and walked aimlessly back into the tumult of the main station. She wasn’t sure what to do. If the wolves had devoured Adrienne, it wouldn’t be long till they hunted her down too. She couldn’t stay in Paris. She had to leave. Again. She’d left so many places; there had never been anything to hold her back. The one advantage of having no family and only a few fleeting alliances – there was never a good reason to stay in a place when things got dangerous. But now, she had a friend. Her friend had trusted her with her dreams for a better life; the pearls weighed heavy in her pocket - and her heart.

Marguerite took a room at a seedy motel near the station that night and spent hours considering her options. Maybe Adrienne had merely been delayed. Perhaps she’d seen Le Larron coming and had gone into hiding. She’d give her friend one more day before she left town.

Marguerite returned to the station the next day and sat on the platform, Once more she watched the noon and evening trains leave for Nice and still no Adrienne. Marguerite surprised herself when she didn’t board the last train. She just couldn’t leave without at least trying to find her friend. Adrienne would surely do the same for her.

She checked her bag at the baggage office, the pearls hidden deep inside. She took the subway back to the centre of the city and walked until she was in sight of the Fat Man’s bar. Marguerite lingered in the shadows watching the entertainers arrive and then the customers. No Adrienne, no Duclos. She turned away.

Percy Boyd almost ran into the sable-haired singer as he approached the club. He’d spent all day trying to get a lead on the location of Duclos, Depard and Mlle. Montclair. They all seemed to have disappeared. Crazy rumours were flying around the demimonde the thieves inhabited. Depard had killed his boss and ran off with his money and the girl. Duclos had double-crossed a buyer and had to flee the country. All three were dead and Le Larron’s fortune missing. Each story wilder than the last, and none providing a single useful clue.

Mutterlich was leaving for Berlin tomorrow. Ralf Krause had boarded a train for Brussels that afternoon. The trail was cold.

Finally, here was a break! The attractive singer looked almost haggard, her grey-green eyes huge in her grim face. He ducked into the alley until she had walked past him then followed her at a safe distance. It soon became clear she was going back to the apartment she shared with Mlle. Montclair. She hesitated at the door then entered the building. He waited.

***

Marguerite left a short time later, her chest tight with dread. The landlady described the scene when Adrienne had left. She told Marguerite that Miss Montclair had paid the rent and called a cab. At that moment a gentleman had arrived with a group of malfrats -young street thugs. Adrienne had left with him in his automobile. Adrienne hadn’t looked happy but the landlady had assumed things were fine since the taxi-driver left without a backward glance. When she asked for a description Marguerite knew at once the man was Louis. Adrienne, I am so sorry.

She stumbled out of the building, unbidden tears glazing her vision. Grief and terror engulfed her. Adrienne was gone – probably dead. She had never felt quite like this before. There had been the continuous empty ache of having no family, knowing nothing of her past, but she had grown used to that. This sharp pang of loss and sorrow ripped deep inside. Poor, dear Adrienne. No one crossed Le Larron. And no one got out of Louis Depard’s clutches alive.

Depard and his henchmen might be waiting outside. She had to get away. She walked toward the Métro, her path uneven as her imagination created dreadful scenarios of Adrienne’s disappearance and likely death. No longer vigilant she was intent only on haste. When she heard the running steps close behind her it was too late for escape.

“Mademoiselle.” A man’s voice spoke out as a hand caught her elbow. Marguerite tried to pull away and run. The man’s grip was firm as he moved with her. His voice as he spoke was quiet and gentle, the tone one would use to sooth a frightened animal.

“Easy, miss. I’m sorry I startled you. I’m a friend,” he loosened his grip a little as she froze, looking up at him with green eyes wide in a tear-streaked face. Her fear and anguish was etched so clearly that it staggered him. From a distance Boyd had thought the singer beautiful but hardened by her profession. Up close he could see how young she was and in this moment, how vulnerable and frightened. Immediately he put an arm around her to comfort her. His boyish good looks had made this a successful ploy in some of his espionage dealings. He felt her tense and pull away. He withdrew his arm.

“Sorry, Mademoiselle. You looked so sad and lonely; I shouldn’t have presumed.”

“What do you want?” Marguerite demanded, having pulled herself together to deal with this new threat.

“What I am about to say is confidential. Can you keep a secret?”

The young singer nodded. If anyone could…

“My name is Percy Boyd. I am a representative of His Majesty’s government. My duties have led me to Paris where I have been investigating Raymond Duclos in conjunction with a robbery.”

“Why would a British spy be interested in Duclos?” she asked, already knowing the answer and wondering if he would tell her the truth.

“He inadvertently stole more than he intended and His Majesty’s government desperately wants to purchase some vital documents he had acquired.”

The explanation sounded plausible to the fearful woman.

“So why are you here? I don’t have them.”

“Unfortunately, I lost track of Duclos the same night you were accosted by that pack of young vermin that he employs. By the time I’d sorted things out, he was gone – he and Louis Depard and your friend Mlle. Montclair.”

Marguerite snatched eagerly at his arm and the frightened young woman could once more be seen beneath her cold façade. “Adrienne! Have you heard anything about Adrienne?”

“Unfortunately, no. That’s why I followed you. I’ve been waiting this evening at the Fosse and other bars hoping someone would show up. You are the only one so far.”

Marguerite’s shoulders slumped. “What about the rest of Duclos’ gang?”

“They’ve gone underground, into the sewers like the rats they are. It won’t take long till the other gangs will be feuding over Duclos’ turf. In a few months, you’d never know he ran this place.”

“What do you think happened?” she murmured, afraid to hear his answer.

“Me? I figure Depard and your friend took a little cut of a heist without telling Duclos and when he found out – well.” Boyd paused and the import of that pause spoke as much as words could. He made it sound obvious he thought Adrienne was dead, killed by Le Larron in vengeance for her betrayal. “How about you? Anything you can add?” He hoped he had lulled her into trusting him, using openness and a soft voice to deaden any suspicions. Too soon, he decided as he saw the veil fall back over her face.

The brunette shrugged her lovely shoulders. “I’m not sure. She seemed normal to me.”

Boyd hesitated. He realized that he would be hard-pressed to get any information from this woman. He should just ditch her, report his failure back to Special Branch and wait to be recalled. Boyd had not even considered telling La Pinsonne his true suspicions – that the German spy Krause had done away with all of them to eliminate any chance that those papers would be found. Unexpectedly, inexplicably, he felt himself drawn toward the woman who stood in front of him. He had been touched by the vulnerable look on her face when he had first spun her around to talk to her. If she didn’t know about the spy angle she wouldn’t know that she could be in danger. He owed it to her to give her a warning.

“You should get out of Paris, Mlle. La Pinsonne. If Duclos or Depard are still alive, they might think you were in on it with your friend. Or that you’ve got the loot.” He searched her face for a flicker of response, but the polished mask was up. The young woman radiated only surprised innocence.

“Me? This is all news to me. If they ask me, I’ll tell them that. No, as long as those two hoodlums are gone, I think I’ll stay on for a while. There’s a chance that my friend just ran away and she’ll come back.” Just like me, she’s got nowhere else to go. She squared her shoulders and ran a hand across her face to wipe away the drying tears. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll go back to the Fat Man’s and see if I still have a job after missing my performance tonight.” She wasn’t about to tell this stranger, as kind as he seemed, that she had quit her job and moved out of her apartment – that would only raise his suspicions.

Boyd arched his eyebrows at her response. She was lying to him; he knew very well that she’d left Grosman’s employ. He surveyed her shrewdly. Even in her distress, she had cleverly steered him to get information without giving anything back. Now she was putting together a scheme to get away from him without burning any bridges. It dawned on him – she’d make a great spy. He made a note to find out more about this intriguing young lady.

Even more than that though, he felt an urge to protect her. No matter what she thought she knew, she had no idea what danger was out there waiting for her. It would weigh heavily on his conscience if he were to leave Paris and find out later she had died or disappeared. Perhaps if he told Special Branch or, better yet, the Secret Service that he was recruiting a new agent…

“Well then, Mlle…” He paused for her name.

“Smith,” she offered reluctantly.

He offered his arm to her and escorted her as they began walking. “Let me accompany you there, Miss Smith.” His presence beside her comforted Marguerite and she found herself leaning unconsciously into his arm. They walked through the empty alley.

“Smith. That’s certainly not a French name. Do you speak English?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied in that language, “I was born there.”

Their footsteps echoed on the cobblestones.

***

November 14 1909

To: P Boyd
I must remind you once more of your duty to your country. The department has been very patient - granting your request to extend your stay in Paris. We anticipate you have had success in your plan to expand our intelligence network by using French-speaking female operatives. However, pressing matters in London require the presence of our most experienced agents. I expect a communication from you forthwith telling us when you intend to wrap up affairs in Paris and return to England.

Special Branch
Scotland Yard

I did wait for you, you know, - for months.

The six weeks that followed were difficult ones for Marguerite. She wheedled Grosman until she got her old job back and moved into a boarding-house nearby. She waited for Adrienne every night, looking beyond the footlights when new customers entered the club. She ate little and slept less; every night her dreams were haunted by a ghastly vision of Adrienne – pale and dead, her throat slit from ear to ear. Each time she would wake with the sight of her friend floating on a sea of blood, a faceless man wiping blood from a knife and Adrienne’s words ‘Why did you let me die,’ faintly echoing in her ear.

The clarity of the dream unnerved her more than she would admit. When Mme. Hippolyte suggested they have another séance, she refused; terrified that Adrienne’s spectre would appear and blame Marguerite for leaving her to a lonely death that fateful morning. When Marguerite woke from her dreams she found herself bargaining with the grim spirit that would accuse her each night of letting her best friend die?” I am waiting for you, Adrienne. Please come back. Though she mocked herself for being childish and superstitious, the dreams never wavered in their intensity and their unhealthy effect upon her.

She lost weight and Grosman harangued her. Why would customers want to see a scarecrow sing, he would ask. There is nothing for them to look at in his beautiful costumes – just a scrawny little chicken not a beautiful songbird. Indifferent to his criticism, she would just shrug. They came for her voice and the place was still packed when she performed.

Marguerite saw Percy Boyd often. He would come to the club and sit at the bar to watch her perform. They met for lunch most days. It was a great pleasure for her to talk about places in England that she remembered from her childhood

“You really must come back to England with me. For a holiday,” he offered, encouraged when for once he had managed to make her smile. They were walking along the Seine, the Ile de la Cité across the river. He reached out to hold her hand. “We’ll go to Avebury. You have good memories of that place.”

“Good memories? I don’t even know how I ended up there - out in a field dancing around the standing stones. What a sight I must have been!”

“Like a drunken monkey?” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

“A drun- you cad,” Laughingly she swatted him with her reticule.

Boyd caught her hand and pressed it to his lips. He pulled her close and kissed her full on the lips. He smelled strong and male and safe. She felt like his arms were a refuge. It turned into a long and lovely kiss. He held her away a little when it finished.

“Come, say you will. I’ll buy us a ticket to London right now.”

“No, I can’t. You know that. I have to wait here for now.”

She refused with regret; she felt that she needed to stay in Paris at least for a little longer in case Adrienne miraculously showed up.

***

In time her friendship with Boyd turned into an intimate affair. She would return with him to his hotel room late at night after her performance was over and sneak out in the morning, avoiding the hotel staff as much as possible. She really was a member of the demimonde now – that group of outcasts that didn’t fit in with proper society – singers and entertainers and prostitutes, subject to different rules and looked down on by normal folks.

Early one morning Percy Boyd rose from his bed and put on his bathrobe. When he returned to his room from the bathroom, he removed the robe and looked at the beautiful woman in his bed, her dark curls covering his pillow. Suddenly her face twisted in fear and a keening moan escaped her. She must be dreaming again. Marguerite never told him about the dreams but the mark they left on her visage and her mood was dramatic. He figured the dreams were a holdover from her friend’s death, but his best efforts to draw the secretive beauty out were met by evasion and, as time went on, a stubborn refusal to talk about it at all.

He slipped into the bed and, propped on one elbow, smoothed her hair with his hand. He bent to kiss her forehead and lips. Her head jerked away from him. He shook her gently.

“Marguerite, wake up, easy now.”

She awoke with a start, looking wildly around as if surprised to find herself in his room. He murmured her name, watching her pulse jump at her throat as she lay rigid. To see her so frightened raised a sense of protective pity– an emotion he’d never had before he met her. He knew it was unwise in his occupation to indulge in that kind of sentimental weakness. Boyd told himself he could keep a professional detachment when it came to Marguerite. He had to; she was going to make a tremendous agent. It was his duty to bring her into the fold.

Boyd watched Marguerite collect herself. “Percy? I – I guess I was dreaming.”

He bent to kiss her forehead. “Again. Same dream?”

Marguerite nodded and made no further comment, just turned a little into his arms. She desperately wanted to obliterate that blood-soaked image in her head, Adrienne’s ghastly countenance.

Boyd ran one hand down her back and pulled her bottom closer to him. He kissed her lips searchingly until she began to respond. “Let’s see if we can make that nightmare go away,” he whispered in her ear as he continued to caress her. She closed her eyes as they made love, anxious to push away the grim dream vision with an act full of life and passion.

The next night’s performance at the club was painful. Marguerite had felt ill all day, heavy-chested and feverish. She had first thought it a residue of her awful dreams but realized it was the start of a cold. Her voice felt husky, her throat raspy as she sang and she was thankful when it was the end of the performance.

“You didn’t sound very good out there tonight,” grumbled Grosman after the performance.

“I think I’m catching a cold,” La Pinsonne admitted.

“You’d better not be,” warned the club owner, “I’m short-staffed as it is. You’ve caused me enough trouble. I need you singing on stage tomorrow.”

“I’ll be there.”

Marguerite made her apologies to Boyd and plodded home to her own lodging. By the next day, she was coughing and lethargic. Her throat felt like it was being slashed by razor blades each time she swallowed. It brought back the disturbing memory of her horrific recurring dream.

The ailing singer dragged herself to the club in time for her evening performance. She practiced in the dressing room full of doubt that she could carry off the performance. She completed her first act and retired to the dressing room. She could barely talk, her throat raw with the effort of singing. Partway through her second performance her voice gave out completely, dissolving into a fit of deep coughing. Grosman was disgusted and furious as he sent her home early.

“One day,” he called after her as she was leaving, “you’d better be back the day after tomorrow, with a voice that someone might want to listen to.”

She returned to her room and retired for the night. She laid there, each breath difficult; her coughing fits sending stabbing pains through her chest. She drifted through the night in fitful snippets of sleep. She awoke feeling no better and lay in her bed the entire day, rising only for the necessities. It was impossible to swallow so she existed on sips of water. Breathing became increasingly more difficult. She took tiny breaths to still the persistent pain in her side and to avoid the horrible coughing that felt like it would rip her apart. By the next morning she was in a twilight zone of consciousness, unresponsive to the landlady tapping at the door, asking if she was coming to breakfast.

***

Percy Boyd knocked at the front door of the rooming house. He rarely visited Marguerite there; it was frowned on for a woman to entertain a gentleman in her bedroom and both of them were uncomfortable in the parlour, surrounded by curious eyes and ears. But when he hadn’t seen her at the club, he had asked Grosman why she wasn’t there. After the club owner told him she was ill, Boyd became concerned enough to go to her lodgings.

The landlady told him that Marguerite had not left her room not even for meals. Boyd made a beeline to Marguerite’s room, ignoring the squeaky protestations of the landlady. He knocked sharply. When there was no response, he opened the door. He saw her in the bed, seemingly asleep, feverish red cheeks in an otherwise chalk-white face. He knelt at the side of the bed, calling her name louder and louder until finally he got a sluggish response. Her eyes opened slowly, but as she tried to speak, no sound emerged. She was wracked with a fit of coughing, which left her trembling and gasping for breath. One hand to her forehead confirmed his fears. He turned to the landlady who hovered over his shoulder.

“Call the doctor. She’s very ill.” The woman, alarmed by the condition of her boarder scurried away to the telephone in the parlour. Boyd spent the time until the physician arrived trying to get the semi-conscious woman to drink some water.

After the examination, the doctor announced that Miss Smith had pneumonia. The patient was severely dehydrated but once she took in the fluids she lacked, he believed there would be a rapid improvement in her condition. He also remarked on the degree of inflammation in her throat –likely an aggravated case of scarlet fever. He also had concerns that there might be damage to her larynx. She would require bed rest until the pain subsided and her breathing improved. The doctor departed and Boyd negotiated with the landlady; his offer of extra cash made her quite willing to nurse her boarder back to health.

Marguerite bounced back quite quickly, though she became increasingly frustrated by her inability to speak. Her laryngitis lingered for days and she was reduced to writing notes and using pantomime to make herself understood. Boyd visited every day and after a week he took her for her first outing – a drive in the park. She was now able to whisper her thanks.

Eventually she could speak normally and had the energy to get about on her own. When she returned to the Fosse, Grosman regretfully told her that she had been replaced, but that the girl wasn’t nearly as good as she was. He scolded her for having gotten even thinner and suggested she sing a few songs for the supper crowd. He promised her job back if she were her old self. Marguerite sang one of her standards.

In front of the stage, Grosman frowned as he listened. Marguerite noticed the change instantly. Her voice had lost its power and vibrancy – no longer true and clear, it was a little muddy and dull. She could hope that with better health she would gain the range and volume that she had lost, but she had a dreadful foreboding that La Pinsonne -the songbird - would never sing again. Her voice ‘like an angel’, as Adrienne had once described it, was sliced to ribbons never to be repaired – just like her old life. What would she do now if she couldn’t sing?

Marguerite shared a little of her dilemma with Percy Boyd that night when he took her out for dinner. She played with her food, pushing it with her fork from one part of her plate to another as she told Boyd about her musical failure. She still was having trouble eating; she had never really regained her appetite after Adrienne’s disappearance and her illness had only made it worse.

“Eat up, little bird,” he chided her, “It’s getting so you’re too bony to hold on to,” he added with a grin. She smiled in response and dutifully swallowed a mouthful. He was a kind man, she mused. He had been very attentive during her illness and Marguerite was grateful. His kindness seemed genuine –unlike so many others. She could tell that he would never be the passion of her life but he had been a sheltering oak tree in this storm that had battered her so badly.

“Do you have any idea what you will do now?” he asked, unsure whether this was the most opportune moment to broach the idea of her becoming an agent for His Majesty’s government.

“I don’t know. Maybe this is a sign – that it’s time for me to move on,” she sighed as she spoke. “Adrienne isn’t coming back.” It was the first time Marguerite had said the words out loud. She gave an involuntary shudder.

“Where would you go?” he inquired.

“Maybe the south of France. That’s where Adrienne always wanted to go,” Her face softened with the memory. “We’d make plans endlessly –where we’d go, who we’d meet, how we’d strike it rich.” The happy memory passed and her face sobered. “I could get a fresh start – maybe get a job in a casino in Monaco or something.”

“You know, Marguerite, I might be able to find something for you. You’re very bright – and beautiful. In my line of work that alone would make you an ideal agent. Add to that your facility with French and English, your sharp observational skills and, I hope you don’t mind me saying this, your ability to carry off a deception and you’d be one of the best spies our country could possibly have.”

“Why, I’m flattered by your description, Percy. Though if I were such a good ‘deceiver’, you’d never have known I was lying,” she answered with a slow smile that ignited his passion. He reached out and brought the back of her hand to his lips.

“Well, let’s say I’ve had a little more opportunity to discover your - um- inner secrets than the people you would be spying on.” He proceeded to press a series of kisses up her wrist to her forearm till she pulled her hand away conscious of glances from other diners. He sighed in disappointment and returned his attention to his pitch.

“I tell you, you’d be good and I know the Foreign Service is interested. I, uh, asked about the possibility a while ago.”

Marguerite frowned at his admission.

“You’ve had this at the back of your mind all along. Is that why you seduced me - to recruit me?” Marguerite’s rising suspicion made her voice sharp.

“Ssh. I thought you were worried about what our fellow diners thought,” he chastised her, “No, I fear Marguerite, your charms seduced me despite my best intentions.” He offered her an indelicate grin, making clear his attraction to the lovely singer.

“Hah,” she said, a little mollified by his response. “You’re a devious, lying spy. I shouldn’t believe a word you say.”

“My dear, we are two of a kind. Seriously, you’d be good at this. It wouldn’t be much at first - just passing on little things you happen to hear. Maybe later they would train you, give you assignments. But it would be steady income – not that much at the beginning but enough to help out. I can’t stand the thought of you leaving here with nothing.”

She rewarded him with one of her dazzling smiles. It communicated thanks and a promise that aroused him once more.

“Let me think about your offer,” she replied, struck by the irony that this was her second offer to become a spy – first the Russians, now the English. Who would be next?

At times like this she thought about telling Percy about the secret papers and the German plot in India. Though time had passed it might still be important information. Yet it brought back the nightmare she refused to relive. She dismissed the idea.

“Aren’t you going to buy me dessert?” she asked, eyes flashing seductively.

“I was about to offer to make it myself,” he replied. “I’ll pay the bill and we can return to my – kitchen.” They left soon after, his arm possessively around her waist.

<To be continued>

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