Chapter Four
Like France itself, the Hôtel Ritz Paris was divided.
It had always been made up of two edifices. The one that faced the Place Vendôme was originally the residence of the Duc de Lauzun, commander of the French troops at Yorktown during the American Revolutionary War. The other half was a building that happened to abut it on Rue Cambon. Lined with display cases, the long corridor that linked the two buildings was known as Temptation Walk.
But while César Ritz had founded the hotel in 1898 as a place where aristocrats and the wealthy could mingle, there was now segregation. The elegant front entrance, at 15 Place Vendôme, was for Germans and those from neutral countries only, while the less fashionable back entry, on the narrow, shady Rue Cambon, was for the French.
Because Maggie was posing as Irish, and Ireland was a neutral country—even seen as friendly toward Nazi Germany—she was allowed to use the Place Vendôme entrance. And so the Generaloberst directed his driver accordingly.
Place Vendôme was less of a square than an octagon, with canted corners, severe Neoclassical pediments, and pitched mansard roofs—in the shape of Coco Chanel’s iconic perfume bottle, Maggie realized. The Place was lined with shops such as Boucheron, Van Cleef & Arpels, Buccellati, and Chaumet, all seeming to be doing a brisk business with Nazi officers coming in and out as doormen bowed low.
At the center of the Place Vendôme rose a tall column, forged from melted cannons seized at the Battle of Austerlitz, topped with a bronze statue of Napoleon Bonaparte. As they circled, Maggie looked up at the emperor, imagining how pained he would be seeing this view, his square conquered, his people subjugated.
The Ritz itself was now the headquarters of the Luftwaffe. And as such, it looked less grand hotel than sandbagged fortress. Blood-red swastika banners flapped above the cream silk awnings and huge carriage-style lamps. Armed guards flanked the entrance in front of the curving topiaries. Long, shiny black cars with flags, convoy trucks, and motorcycles with sidecars queued at the doors. As the Generaloberst’s car pulled up, Maggie could hear officers shouting lusty Heil Hitlers to each other. She tried to assuage her fear by picturing Barbara Hutton Mdivani attempting to enter the Ritz in tennis shorts and being turned away, but couldn’t quite manage it.
“Since I know where you’re staying,” the Generaloberst said as his driver opened the door, “may I call on you—when I arrive with your new gloves?”
Maggie accepted the driver’s proffered hand. “I plan on going to the Café de la Paix often,” she replied with a forced smile, as she stepped out of the car. She turned back to face the Generaloberst, hearing the approaching sound of marching jackboots in the square. She didn’t want his gloves or anything else he could give her, and there was no way she ever wanted to see him again. But she couldn’t say that.
“Perhaps we’ll meet there.” Note—stay far, far away from the Café de la Paix.
“I really do thank you—from the bottom of my heart,” he said.
Do you have one? Maggie thought but didn’t say, maintaining her glassy smile instead.
“So this is not au revoir, but à bientôt, mademoiselle.”
A thousand times no. “Merci…” Maggie realized she didn’t know his name.
“Generaloberst Ruesdorf. Christian Ruesdorf. At your service.”
As a bellhop swooped to take her trunk, suitcase, and hatboxes, Maggie attempted to hold on to her smile. She gave a small wave before a barrel-chested doorman in a long coat with brass buttons doffed his hat and whisked her through the revolving door.
His low voice rumbled, “Welcome to the Hôtel Ritz, mademoiselle.”
Inside was a different world—a hothouse of gilded mirrors, marble, and damask, the air perfumed by lush arrangements of orchids and roses, the ripples of a harp’s arpeggios wafting through murmured conversations in both French and German. Maggie’s first impression wasn’t of a hotel but of a stately manor house, albeit one with its numerous Swiss clocks set precisely to Berlin time. Well-groomed men sat on Martin chairs reading freshly ironed newspapers.
But this was no fairy-tale palace—the lobby was also swarming with Nazis in gray-green uniforms. Maggie took a deep breath, raised her chin, and threw back her shoulders.
As she walked the long, carpeted hallway, past walls of silk moiré, Chinese pendant lanterns, and hopelessly banal artwork, she observed a slim, middle-aged man in a well-tailored suit. Topped by a dark widow’s peak, his face was worn and haggard, but his jaw was noble. He stood listening respectfully to a high-ranking German, short and balding, his chest decorated with medals, the Iron Cross at his throat. “I wish to thank you for arranging last night’s impromptu dinner party, Monsieur Auzello,” the officer was saying. “It was superb, as always.” He thrust out his right hand.
“You’re very welcome, sir.” Maggie watched as the Frenchman ignored the offered hand, then bowed gracefully, turned, and walked away—leaving the Nazi standing there with an outstretched palm and open mouth.
Resistance is alive, even at the Ritz, she thought, and instantly felt heartened.
Another French gentleman, this one with a lush mustache and fading hairline, passed Auzello and murmured, “Germans will come and go, my friend—but fly-fishing is forever,” in Swiss-accented French. Maggie could only assume he was César Ritz, the legendary hotelier.
At the reception desk, a dapper, fussy, tortoiseshell-bespectacled gentleman looked up to greet her. “Ah, yes, mademoiselle!” he exclaimed, his eyes enormous behind thick glass, when Maggie said she had a reservation and showed her passport. “We’ve been expecting you.”
He entered her information into the ledger with a fountain pen in script, adding, “As I mentioned on the telephone, our suites have been commandeered for high-ranking German officials. And so I’m afraid your room is on the top floor, under the mansard. It was originally intended to accommodate the traveling companions of the wealthy.” As an aside, he whispered, “The German officers find the ceilings too low.”
Maggie smiled as she signed her false name. “I’m sure it’s charming.”
“And, should you need it, our bomb shelter is renowned for its fur rugs and Hermès sleeping bags. France may have fallen, but not the Ritz! We—”
“The Rue Cambon entrance didn’t have anything for me, André,” a woman’s voice interrupted. The newcomer was enveloped in a cloud of jasmine and cigarette smoke. “But I’m expecting an envelope with ballet tickets. Would you be a darling and check for me?”
She waggled bony shoulders in exasperation, glancing at Maggie. “Sometimes things for the Rue Cambon side are left here and vice versa—one really must be careful of that.”
The woman was petite, slender, and somewhere in her fifties, Maggie guessed, although her gamine appearance defied age. Her skin was deeply tanned, her hair dyed black, and her cheeks rouged. She wore a simple black suit, but ropes of pearl and gold necklaces and bracelets rattled as she moved. She regarded Maggie with a basilisk gaze. “Nice dress,” she said finally.
Maggie suddenly realized who the woman was. “Th-thank you, mademoiselle,” she managed, glad she had chosen to wear the Chanel.
Gabrielle Bonheur Chanel, known by her nickname Coco, was one of the most famous couturieres and perfumers in the world. She was renowned for taking women out of heavy, frilly hats and fussy corsets, and dressing them instead in boyish toppers and creations of tailored, streamlined jersey. She’d also designed costumes for stage and film, alongside Jean Cocteau, Sergei Diaghilev, and Pablo Picasso, in addition to creating the world’s most famous perfume, Chanel No. 5, named for her lucky number.
“They’ve put you up on the top floor, I suspect?” Chanel asked, her gold chain bracelets jangling as the receptionist looked through cubbyholes for any stray envelopes for her. Maggie nodded. “That’s where I am now as well. I used to have a suite, overlooking the Place Vendôme. However, as you may have noticed,” the couturiere continued, her voice hard, “times have changed.”
“As always, you’re correct, mademoiselle,” André said, handing her an envelope with her name written in beautiful calligraphy.
Chanel took it and opened it, pulling out two tickets. “Excellent,” she said. Then, as she unfolded the accompanying note, her crimson-painted lips pursed.
“Everything all right, mademoiselle?” asked André.
“Fine, fine.” She waved a hand, brushing off his concern. “André here is the best in the business,” she told Maggie. “Whatever you need he’ll procure—an abortionist, a drug dealer, even an assassin. Anything goes at the Ritz.” Maggie looked shocked, which seemed to please the designer. “And what brings you to Paris?” Chanel continued, tucking everything into her quilted lambskin handbag.
Maggie fixed a smile on her face. “I’m pleased to say I’m in town for fashion, mademoiselle. My trousseau, to be specific. And a wedding dress.”
“Aha! And whose ateliers will you be visiting?”
“Nina Ricci,” Maggie answered, glad she had memorized the designers who still had shops open. “Jacques Fath, Germaine Lecomte, Jean Patou, Lanvin…and, of course, Schiaparelli—”
Chanel rolled her black eyes. “L’Italienne.” Maggie could tell it wasn’t a compliment. “Don’t go to that one. Besides, she’s left Paris for New York, the traitor.”
“But I’m going to them only because your atelier is not open, Mademoiselle Chanel.” Maggie had done her homework. Coco Chanel had closed hers in 1940, when the Occupation began, proclaiming it was “no time for fashion.” However, she’d kept her boutique open and had made a wartime fortune selling No. 5 to eager Germans wanting a fragrant souvenir of their Paris sojourn to take home to their wives and sweethearts.
“You speak French well. But you’re not French or else you would be using the Rue Cambon entrance.” She grazed Maggie’s cheek with an immaculately manicured, scarlet-painted fingertip. “And not German, either. Swiss?”
“Irish.”
One tweezed eyebrow rose. “Irish?”
Maggie nodded. “Born there. But raised in America for most of my life, shuttling between the two countries. I’m living in Lisbon at present.”
“Lisbon, yes—I’m thinking of opening a shop there. Madrid, too. Perfume only, of course—at least for now. Yes, Irish,” she said, appraising Maggie, like a jeweler inspecting a diamond under a loupe. “I should have guessed with that red hair…”
“Your room is ready, mademoiselle,” the receptionist said to Maggie, gesturing to a groom in buttoned uniform, white gloves, and cap, waiting with her key.
Maggie smiled. “Thank you.”
“I’ll walk with you,” announced Chanel.
As the two women made their way through the lobby, a cluster of soldiers pushed a brass trolley loaded with large boxes. “So many Germans!” Maggie tried to make small talk. “They do seem busy.”
Chanel glanced up with a gimlet eye. “They’re colonizing.”
“Colonizing?”
“What we did to Algeria, they’re now doing to us. And plundering, too. Art, mostly. Perfume, too. And wine, clothes, foie gras, truffles…Anything and everything. Hitler’s personal art broker, Karl Haberstock, has made the Ritz his home in Paris.” She gestured, bracelets clinking. “That particular crew works for Goering.”
“Reichsmarshal Hermann Goering?” Maggie repressed a shudder. She had met Goering in Berlin, in a different disguise.
“Of course—Herr Goering’s the head of the Luftwaffe. He took over the Imperial Suite and is sending an endless parade of French art back to Carinhall.” Chanel leaned in. “He takes our country—now he takes our paintings…” She tossed her head, shaking golden earrings with interlocking C’s. Maggie was suddenly aware of how much the linking C’s resembled the intersecting S’s of the swastika.
“And your suite as well,” Maggie managed.
They approached the elevator, its doors frosted glass encased in a cylinder of limed oak, and stepped in. As the groom pushed the buttons, the lift groaned, then began to rise.
“Still, the hotel must be making a tidy profit from the”—Maggie wasn’t sure how to phrase it—“new guests?”
Chanel tucked a stray lock of jet-black hair behind her ear. “They’re lodgers ‘on the German plan.’ ” Maggie shook her head, not understanding. Chanel explained: “They’re ‘guests of the Führer.’ And so they don’t pay for their rooms. Or their Champagne.”
“Ah.” As they ascended, Maggie was aware Chanel was once again appraising both her body and the drape of her garment. Since the dress wasn’t hers to begin with, the fit was slightly off—snug across the bust, loose in the hips. Only what a practiced eye would see. Maggie felt uncomfortable under the scrutiny, as though spiders were crawling over her. It’s from the ’thirty-eight collection, she thought, trying to remain calm. Anyone’s body might change a bit in three years.
When the elevator jolted to a stop on their floor, Chanel purred, “I do hope you enjoy your stay. Unlike some Parisians, I’m quite fond of neutrals.” And then she was gone.
Maggie exhaled in relief, then followed the groom the opposite way down the carpeted hallway. He turned a ceramic knob, opening the door. “Welcome to the Ritz, mademoiselle,” he intoned, bowing, then handing her the iron key. “Do you need help unpacking? I can send one of the maids up to assist.”
“No.” Maggie wanted nothing more than to close the door and find solitude. But she forced herself to smile. “No, thank you.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a few coins, which she pressed into his gloved palm.
He bowed low. “Thank you, mademoiselle. We hope you enjoy your stay.”
She closed the door, locked it, took a breath of potpourri-scented air, then looked around.
As André had warned, the room was tiny, with a low, slanted ceiling, a small fireplace, and dormer windows. It was furnished simply, with a brass bed covered by a silk duvet and knife-edge pillows, a diminutive walnut desk and chair, and a cloisonné armoire. There was a vase of red roses on the bedside table and a few prints of exotic birds dotted the walls, as well as a gilt-framed reproduction of Gilbert’s La Belle au bois dormant. Above the mantel, a Swiss carriage clock ticked, cutting through the luxurious silence.
Maggie dropped her handbag on the bed, slipped off her shoes, and unpinned and took off her hat. Outside, a sun shower was beginning. The drops thrummed against the windowpanes, though the sky above was blue.
She let out a long, shuddering sigh, finally able to unclench—at least a bit—and to process what she had seen and experienced since leaving the Charcots’ house.
The murder.
She went into the bathroom and ran both the sink’s taps, scrubbing flecks of blood off her hands with a fresh cake of hyacinth-scented soap.
Then she went back to her handbag and took out the bloody gloves, and brought them back to the bathroom. She put in the sink stop, ran cold water, and dropped them in to soak, the water turning a rusty red. The German’s blood, she thought. But he, at least, will be fine—while the Frenchman on the bicycle is dead. Does his family know yet? What lies will they be told?
She considered her reflection in the beveled mirror, seeing the remnants of the panic and horror she’d concealed at the time of the murder. She released her hair from its pins and clips. What am I even doing here? she thought, wiping at her ashen face with a damp washcloth, inspecting it for any traces of blood.
Her decision to come to Paris had been so fast—rash, even—and then, after flying in, she’d been so focused on her mission, on getting her identity papers, then finding Erica Calvert and Elise, that she’d never questioned anything. But now, finally, at her destination in her new persona, she was furious with herself. Why did I ever think I could find not one but two missing women in an occupied city? She refused to entertain the possibility that both Erica and Elise might be dead. And why did I think I could make it out alive myself?
Still, she was here for a mission, and that was what she would do. The first order of business was to settle in. She unpacked, starting with her toiletries case: Cadum tooth powder and toothbrush, Occupation-regulated shampoo, French-brand sanitary towels. An almost empty bottle of Joy perfume, memories wafting from it.
As she hung up her clothes, she heard a church bell strike the false Berlin time. She went to the window and opened it. The rain had stopped; the sun was shining unimpeded. Looking down at the Rue Cambon, she could see a line of men in suits and hats on the wet cobblestone pavement, still holding up black umbrellas. Hastily, she stepped back from the window frame and checked to see if she was visible from any sight lines, if anyone was looking.
When she realized what she was doing instinctively, she felt an almost overwhelming loneliness. She was an agent now. A spy. She hadn’t talked to anyone for weeks besides Jacques, the Charcots, and then a few words with the agent who’d just arrived. The last time she’d seen her Aunt Edith was in Washington, D.C., and only for a scant day, fraught with frustrations and misunderstandings. Her father was dead, and her mother most likely was, too. It had been weeks since she’d been with her friends, the people who were her true family—David, Freddie, and Chuck. And even though her fellow agents Sarah and Hugh were also in Paris, it would be far too dangerous to make any contact with them.
As for her romantic life…John was courting divorcées in Los Angeles, Hugh was in love with Sarah, and she’d had only the occasional letter from the American soldier Tom O’Brian at Fort Bragg. And as for Detective Chief Inspector James Durgin…Well, they hadn’t even had a proper date, only a brief connection while catching a Jack-the-Ripper-inspired killer. What kind of relationship did that portend? Not to mention he was older, divorced, a recovering alcoholic….
Maggie was twenty-seven now, a veritable old maid. So what’s wrong with me? She’d panicked when John had asked her to marry him nearly two years before. She’d run to Hugh when she thought John had died—only to leave him. And then, when she and John had had another chance in Washington, she’d panicked again. Tom—well, that was easy—he was leaving. And then with Durgin…Well, nothing had really happened; there had been no time after the case closed and she’d left for France. Jacques was safe—off-limits—besides, she’d probably never even see him again.
Basically, I have no problem parachuting out of a plane or fighting Nazis, but I can’t seem to fall—no, stay—in love.
Her Aunt Edith had raised her to be strong, self-sufficient, and independent. And she was. Except whenever she was with a man, part of her was always terrified. She couldn’t be weak, couldn’t be vulnerable, couldn’t be out of control. She loved mathematics partly for its cold beauty, its lack of emotion. In math, either you were right, or you were wrong. Math couldn’t hurt you, abandon you, leave you, damage you.
Freud would have a field day. Wasn’t that what had led her to sabotage things with John in America? If she were honest with herself, she had to admit she didn’t really think he was with a divorcée. Picking a fight with him had been easier than maybe moving to Los Angeles, getting engaged, starting a new life. Because what if she needed him? Would he run away and leave her, like her father did?
Her heart hurt, literally hurt, and she pressed her hands to her chest, as though to postpone its breaking. I need to forgive my father for not being the man I needed him to be. She put her arms around herself. Maybe someday.
No wonder finding her sister—her half sister—felt so important. She tried to picture Elise Hess, whom she’d met on her mission to Berlin over a year ago, and failed miserably, evoking only blond hair and the ghost of a sweet smile. I don’t even remember what she looks like. How am I going to find her?
She ran the taps in the claw-foot tub and began to undress. Pull it together, Hope. All she wanted to do was get into a bath and wash away the horror of the day.
She threw in a generous handful of bath salts, then slipped under the surface of the hot water—courtesy of the Nazis, she realized; no one else in Paris had hot water. For a moment, she was able to lean back, relax the muscles in her neck and shoulders, and clear her mind.
But not for long. As she breathed in the fragrant air, she was startled by a knock.
“Who is it?” she called, heart racing. She stepped out of the tub and grabbed a peach-colored towel. Had she been found out? What could have given her away?
“It’s Coco,” came the hard-edged voice.
Maggie found a bathrobe and cracked open the door, flustered and dripping. Chanel didn’t seem to notice. “Do you enjoy the ballet?” the couturiere asked without preamble.
“Er…yes?”
“I seem to have an extra ticket for tonight. The Paris Opéra Ballet,” Chanel explained, as if Maggie were a slow child, “at the Palais Garnier. Would you like to join me?”
“Why…of course, thank you so much, mademoiselle.”
Elise’s father, Miles Hess, was a renowned conductor, who had undoubtedly played at the Palais Garnier. Maybe someone there, the evening’s conductor, might know him, might know the address of the Hess family’s flat in Paris. Going to the ballet could possibly bring her one step closer to finding her sister.
“The curtain’s at eight, so I’ll meet you downstairs at the Rue Cambon entrance at seven-thirty. My driver will take us.”
“Of—of course,” Maggie managed, fingers plucking at the neck of her robe. “But what about the curfew?” The Nazis had imposed a 9:00 P.M. curfew on Parisians.
“I have special papers that allow my companions and me to be out late.”
Really, Maggie thought. And how exactly did you get those? But she said only “Thank you so much, Mademoiselle Chanel. This is so kind—”
“Call me Coco.” The couturiere turned to leave, then swiveled back, as if on a runway. “By the way, you have the advantage—you know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
“Paige,” Maggie answered with assurance. She’d practiced saying her new name over and over again, until it felt natural. “Paige Kelly.”
Coco Chanel went back to her rooms down the hall, which always smelled faintly of No. 5, a modern mix of ylang-ylang, neroli, and rose, which the maids sprayed each day. She’d had to move most of her furnishings—her blackamoors, Jacques Lipchitz sculptures, and the silk divan she’d reclined on for Horst—to the rooms above her atelier when she’d moved from her grand Ritz suite to smaller rooms after the Occupation. But she would not part with her Coromandel screens, large burnished panels painted with flowers and exotic birds. They were precious reminders of her tragic love affair with “Boy” Capel.
Chanel stripped off her impeccable suit, revealing a girlish figure. She slipped into a rich paisley robe with satin lapels that flowed to her ankles, one of Boy’s she refused to part with. She went to the second bedroom, which served as her closet, and examined dress after dress on padded silk hangers, looking for something to wear for the evening’s performance. As she fingered the black sequins of a slim gown, she had a sudden thought and went back to her sitting room. There she perched on one of the gilt chairs and placed a phone call to her atelier.
“Yes, I need you to go to the files,” she told the shopgirl on the other end of the line. “I want to know about a dress, the blue floral in the spring ’thirty-eight collection. Is there any mention of a Paige Kelly?”
During the pause that followed, Chanel examined her pointed, red-varnished nails, then opened the drawer of her dressing table, searching for something amid the stationery, envelopes, and fountain pens.
After a few minutes, the girl on the other end of the line returned. “Yes, mademoiselle. You sold a number of pieces of that collection, including a blue floral dress, to a Paige Claire Kelly.”
Chanel pressed her lips together as she removed a gold-tooled leather box. Inside was a syringe. “Did I make any notes?” she asked, taking out the syringe. She again went through the drawer until she found what she was looking for: an ampoule of clear liquid.
“We have Mademoiselle Kelly’s height as five foot seven and recorded her measurements as thirty-three, twenty-four, thirty-six.”
“All right, then,” the couturiere said with a resigned sigh as she filled the syringe. “Close enough.”
“Oh, mademoiselle, there is one more thing—”
Chanel, making sure there were no air bubbles in the needle, squirted a few drops of morphine-based Sedol into the air. “Yes?”
“You wrote in the margins that Mademoiselle Kelly was a blonde. A natural blonde…Mademoiselle?”
“That is all.” Chanel hung up the receiver. “Blonde,” she muttered, eyes narrowing.
As the couturiere pricked the needle into her upper thigh, she murmured, “This little puzzle could make the evening much, much more fun than I anticipated.”