“So we reach a stalemate,” Herr Dinkslager spread his hands in a gesture of futility. “I can’t have him released until he gives us vital information.”
“And I couldn’t consider carrying out any assignment for you until I knew he was safely far away . . . in Switzerland, or Portugal, maybe.”
“So you see my dilemma, Lady Margaret,” he said, studying his hands now. “I am under pressure to retrieve the information that your lover holds. But I personally would like to work toward peace—to have you as my ally in working toward peace. And I’m sure you would rather go home to your family alive and in one piece?”
A picture of Farleigh sprang unbidden into her mind—horse chestnuts blooming along the drive and herself out riding with Pamma and Dido, challenging them to a race, galloping across the grass. She wrenched herself back to reality.
“Of course, I would like to go home, but I can’t abandon Gaston. So you see my dilemma, Herr Dinkslager. You are asking me to betray my country to save my lover.”
“I am asking you to save your country from ruin. Think of your home. Think of Westminster Abbey. Do you want them all reduced to rubble? Thousands more people killed. Thousands more homeless. And in the end, those people will blame the ones who brought them to this misery. They will welcome the German army when it comes with rations and shelter and hope for a future.”
Margot didn’t want to believe this, but she had to admit that it was a possibility if the war went on long enough and the devastation continued.
“Let me see Gaston de Varennes,” she said. “Take me to him. I will do what I can.”
“Wise girl.” He nodded. “Get your coat. We’ll go now.”
Margot looked across at Madame Armande. She wanted to ask if Armande could come with them, but the designer said quickly, “Off you go, then. I have a fitting with Frau von Herzhofen.”
Margot allowed the German officer to escort her down the stairs and out to a waiting car. He opened the door and helped her into the backseat as if he were planning to take her to the opera. He climbed in beside her, and they drove off. Now that she was away from the safety of the Ritz, she fought back the rising panic. Was she being taken to Gaston or merely back to Gestapo headquarters where she herself would be questioned, or tortured, or killed? Had the pleasantries only been so that Madame Armande didn’t realise what was about to happen?
The trees along the Champs-Élysées were in full leaf as they drove up the hill to the Arc de Triomphe. In peacetime, the cafés bordering the street would have been full with people sitting at outdoor tables, enjoying an afternoon coffee. Now, the street was almost deserted. An old woman shuffled past, head bowed as if she didn’t want to be seen. Two German soldiers passed her, and she stepped aside for them. At Place de l’Étoile, that circle from which streets fanned out like the spokes of a wheel, they turned onto the wide boulevard of Avenue Foch. Before the war, this had been a good address. Tall, light stone houses with balconies and brightly painted shutters stood back from the road behind rows of trees. One would have expected to see elegant couples strolling, a little dog at their heels. Now, this street, too, was deserted, apart from German staff cars parked at the curb. When they had almost reached the end of the street at the Porte Dauphine, one of the old city gates, the car came to a halt. Margot read the house number, 84. I must remember this, she thought. Just in case. Not that she really hoped anyone would try to rescue her from what was clearly either Gestapo or similar headquarters. She clasped her hands together to stop them from shaking.
The driver came around to open the door for her, and again Herr Dinkslager escorted her inside as if he were ushering her into a good restaurant. The soldier at the door saluted. A conversation was held with a man in a black uniform. He nodded, then spoke into a telephone mouthpiece. They waited, nobody speaking. Then the telephone rang again, the man in the black uniform answered it and nodded to them. Herr Dinkslager said, “We go up now.”
They stepped together into a small Parisian iron-cage elevator, and the door clanged shut with finality. Up they went, floor after floor. Margot hadn’t realised the building was so tall; she had expected to be taken down to a basement or dungeon. At last the elevator wheezed and ground to a halt, and the door clanked open. She stepped out onto a landing and was motioned to go ahead of Herr Dinkslager to a door opposite. Her heels clicked loudly across the tiled floor, echoing back from the skylight above. Herr Dinkslager opened the door, took her arm, and propelled her inside. Margot’s heart was thudding so loudly in her chest that she could hardly breathe, but she walked in, head held high.
Two men scrambled to their feet, one tall, blond, and erect, almost a caricature of a German soldier. The other a scrawny shadow of a man, unkempt hair, filthy clothing, with an ugly bruise on his left cheek. His left eye was swollen half-shut. Margot let out an involuntary gasp.
“Gaston!” she exclaimed.
The man looked at her with horror. “For the love of God, Margot, what are you doing here?” He turned to the Germans. “This woman knows nothing. I have told her nothing. Not one word. Let her go immediately.”
“She came here of her own volition, Monsieur Le Comte. She is trying to institute your release to a neutral country, like Switzerland.”
Gaston stared at Margot but said nothing. She could not interpret his gaze.
“On what terms?” he demanded.
“That you supply us with the information we want.”
“I have told you before you waste your time. I will never betray my friends or my country, whatever you choose to do to me.”
“I see.” Dinkslager turned to Margot. “Please take a seat, your ladyship.”
He pulled out a plain upright chair at a wooden table, and she sat. He pulled out the other chair and sat beside her.
“It seems we have come here for nothing, Lady Margaret. Such a pity.”
“You would have me betray brave men?” Gaston asked her. He was looking at her coldly.
“No. Of course not,” she said. “I wanted proof that you were still alive.”
“I am alive, just. Now let her go,” he said to the Germans.
Herr Dinkslager picked up Margot’s hand. She flinched, but he held it tightly. “You have elegant hands, my lady,” he said. “An artist’s hands. And such long fingernails. Strange things, fingernails. We no longer need them now that we do not have to hunt our prey . . . in that manner.”
His voice was pleasant, but Margot felt fear rising in her throat. He stroked her hand, playing with her fingers one by one.
“Since they are of no value, maybe we should just remove them?” He looked directly at Gaston. Margot wanted to snatch her hand away but couldn’t. She couldn’t let the German see she was afraid. He held out his hand to the young agent, who passed him something that looked like a thin piece of wood. Without saying another word he took this and placed it under the nail of Margot’s forefinger. He looked up questioningly at Gaston, who remained immobile. Then he pushed down inside the nail. The pain was so red-hot and searing that tears spurted from her eyes. She clamped her lips together to prevent herself from crying out.
“Shall I go on?” He looked up at Gaston. “You wish your beloved to suffer for your stubbornness?”
Gaston remained silent.
“Shall I tear off the nails, one by one? And then there are worse things that can happen to her. This young man here, he has appetites and has been too long without a woman.”
Margot watched the blood welling up onto the wood, then she looked up at Gaston’s face. His expression hadn’t changed. She waited for him to say something.