I must have made a noise. I heard Drew’s intake of breath as he looked over my shoulder. “That’s it, isn’t it? That’s the talisman.”
I quickly translated the caption. “‘The Demoiselle de Courcelles, a heroine for France and the woman who routed an entire command of German officers and liberated a French national treasure.’”
We regarded each other in stunned silence before Drew let out a shout then lifted me from my chair, swirling me around regardless of the stares of sidewalk passersby and the occupants at the nearby tables. “My father was right! The wolf and the cross are real!” Before either one of us knew what he was doing, he kissed me soundly on the lips and then did it again, which did all sorts of interesting things to my knees.
I tried my best to speak over him, but his words tumbled over each other like newborn lambs in a pasture. “This is it—I’m sure of it, Babs. The talisman is what my father was sent to retrieve from La Fleur. This means there must be a connection between the de Courcelles and La Fleur. Do you see?”
“I’m not sure . . . ,” I began, but he wasn’t listening. He grasped my arms and I had the stray—and not unwelcome— thought that he might kiss me again. “So what do we do now?”
His face became serious. “Well, we go back to the Ritz and find out if they ever discovered who stole the talisman.”
“But surely they won’t know!” I protested. “It’s been over twenty years. Surely no one who worked there then will still be there now.”
“It’s the Ritz, Babs. Why would a person ever want to leave?” He pulled out his wallet and placed several bills on the table before quickly gathering up all the papers and shoving them into his briefcase.
I opened my mouth to explain that being a guest at the Ritz was not the same as actually working there, but found myself pulled by the hand down the sidewalk back toward the hotel.
Drew bristled with so much excitement his skin should have been glowing. I was happy for him, for getting nearer to granting his father’s last wish and discovering what had really happened that night in 1942. Perhaps even finding the elusive La Fleur.
But I seemed to be dragging my feet, making him slow periodically so I could catch up. Eventually he took my hand, the warm strength of his fingers doing nothing to stanch the chill that had invaded my body. I knew the closer we came to discovering the truth, the closer I came to having to confess to Drew that La Fleur had sent Kit a letter, and I had kept it from him. My reasons at the time had been sound, heroic, and done in Kit’s best interests. At least I’d thought so then. But now, imagining how it would sound to Drew in the telling, I appeared to be a vindictive, spiteful woman who kept the love of Kit’s life away from him for my own selfish gain. The whole scenario made me want to pack my bags and leave now, before I had to confess my shame and endure Drew’s look of disappointment and reproach. As if I didn’t see it enough in my own reflection each time I looked in a mirror.
The sound of a clacking typewriter met us as we entered the hotel. Drew pulled me behind a line of potted palms to be out of Prunella Schuyler’s line of vision, stopping as he surveyed the hotel’s entry points undetected. “Shouldn’t we be going to the administration offices?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Gigi said the best person to talk to is the hallman—this guy.” He showed me a scrap of paper with the name André Deneaux written on it. “He started here in 1937 as a page and moved on to taking telephone messages in 1942 and still does. He apparently has a perfect memory and is the epitome of discretion.”
“So he probably won’t tell us anything,” I said, trying to keep the hopeful tone from my voice.
“Not necessarily. We’re not asking for state secrets, after all. We just want to know if the talisman was ever found, and where it might be now. We’re looking for facts. He might be able to tell us who the likely suspects were, too. According to Gigi, he probably remembers each person who’s come through the doors since 1937.”
“Shouldn’t we do this in a more formal way? Like in a letter?”
Drew sent me an odd look before grabbing my hand again, approaching a man I’d seen several times since the beginning of my stay. “Monshur Doonox,” Drew called out as our prey emerged from the lift.
The dapper, bespectacled gentleman smiled as we approached, unperturbed by the butchering of his name. “Madame, monsieur.” He nodded to us in greeting. “How may I be of service?”
Drew smiled. “I understand you have been at the Ritz for nearly thirty years. Is that correct?”
The man bowed his head. His English was perfect, of course, his French accent gently coloring his words. “It is indeed. And it has always been an honor and a pleasure.”
“So you’d remember the Comtesse de Courcelles? I understand she lived here for nearly six decades.”
“Of course. I remember her well. A lovely, vibrant woman. She was well-known for her salons, attracting the best and the brightest intellectuals and writers Paris had to offer throughout the years of her residency. She is greatly missed.”
Drew nodded eagerly while he listened to the answer, ready to ask his next question. “When she lived here, do you remember her ever saying anything about the de Courcelles talisman?”
The man’s brown eyes widened behind his glasses. “The talisman? Mais oui. Every true Frenchman knows of the talisman. The comtesse had it displayed in a case in her suite. I even saw it a time or two. Of course, the original talisman is just a piece of cloth, a holy relic, but the comtesse had more, shall we say, extravagant tastes and added many priceless jewels. But the true value of it was always the relic.”
Drew reached into his briefcase and pulled out the mimeographed photo. “Is this it?”
Monsieur Deneaux lowered the glasses on his nose, examining the photo. “Yes. This is what I remember being in the case. It wasn’t purple, of course.”
“Of course,” Drew said, taking back the proffered page. “It says in the article that it was stolen from the Ritz in 1942. Do you remember that?”
Monsieur Deneaux tucked his chin, making it nearly disappear into his narrow neck. “It was not stolen. Not from the Ritz. We have always had excellent security.” He seemed personally affronted.
“Yes, I know,” I reassured. “It’s only the newspapers at the time—and you know how unreliable they can be—stated it had been stolen. Can you at least share with us what you think might have happened to it? We understand that the talisman disappeared during the war, and we are merely trying to find out what happened to it.”
Apparently mollified, André nodded. “It did disappear, but it certainly wasn’t stolen. Not from the Ritz, at any rate.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “I believe that it was taken by the husband of the comtesse’s granddaughter. Pierre Villon.” He said the name with such loathing that I almost expected him to spit.
“Why do you say that?” Drew asked.
“He was a French government official, a bureaucrat without much real responsibility. But he and his family lived in a very grand apartment in the sixteenth arrondissement that his position shouldn’t have afforded.”