and he looked at his watch and said, almost to himself, “It’s too early for the police car.” Then, to Zannis, “Can’t you hear it?”
In the silence of the room, Zannis listened intently and discovered the low beat of an idling engine. The officer went to the window and, using one finger, carefully moved the blackout curtain aside, no more than an inch. “Come have a look,” he said.
Zannis joined him at the window. Across the street from the hotel, a glossy black Citroen, the luxury model with a long hood and square passenger compartment, was parked at the curb. The air was sufficiently cold to make the exhaust a white plume at the tailpipe.
The officer kept his voice low, his words meant for Zannis and nobody else. “The only people who drive these things in Paris are the Gestapo and the SS. It’s the official German car.”
Zannis understood immediately, though he found it hard to believe. “We had a problem at the restaurant,” he said, “with an SS officer. It seems he followed us back here.”
“Why would he do that?”
“He wanted your woman friend. He was very drunk.”
“Then let’s hope it’s him.”
“Why?”
“Because if it isn’t, we’ve been betrayed.”
“Is that possible?”
“I’m afraid it is.”
The aristocrat joined them at the window. “What’s going on?”
“There’s a car out there. See it? Zannis thinks some SS man followed you home from the restaurant.”
The aristocrat peered past the curtain. She swore, then said, “Now what?”
“We’ll have to think of something.”
“Will they search the hotel?” she said.
Byer said, “What’s going on?” His voice rose to a whine. “What is it?”
The officer said, “Keep quiet, Harry.” Then, “They might search the hotel. Maybe he’s waiting down there for a squad to show up.”
“Is there a back door?” Zannis said.
“There is, but it’s padlocked. And, even if we got out that way, what happens when our friend shows up with the police car?”
They were silent for a moment. The officer again moved the curtain and said, “He’s just sitting there.”
“There were two of them, and their girlfriends,” the aristocrat said. “Maybe they’ll just go away. They have to assume I’m in this hotel for the night.”
“Maybe they will. Or maybe they’ll wait until morning,” the officer said.
“Could anybody be … that crazy?”
Nobody answered. Finally Zannis said, “Can you somehow contact your friend and warn him off?”
The officer looked at his watch. “No, he’s left his hotel by now. The police car is up at Levallois, in a garage. The owner helps us.”
Again, silence.
Zannis’s mind was racing. He had seen, when he’d first entered the hotel, a metal shutter pulled down over a broad entryway. Not a shop, he guessed, because the sidewalk ended at either side of the shutter and a cobblestone strip led to the street. “If Byer and I aren’t here,” he said, “would it matter if a Gestapo squad searched the hotel?”
The officer thought it over. “No, it would just be the two of us in a room. And, when our friend arrives, he’ll see the Gestapo vehicles and drive away.”
“I think we’d better do something now,” Zannis said. He put on his trench coat and grabbed the handle of his small valise.
“Good luck,” the officer said. He shook Zannis’s hand, and the aristocrat kissed him on both cheeks and said, “Be careful.”
“Let’s go, Harry,” Zannis said.
In the dark lobby at the foot of the staircase, the night clerk snored on, dead to the world. Zannis shook him by the shoulder and he woke with a start and said, “What … what do you want?” His breath smelled of sour wine.
“Is there a garage in this hotel?”
“Yes.”
“What’s in there?”
“A car, belongs to the guy who owns the hotel. He can’t drive it-the Bosch tried to confiscate private cars, so some people hid them.”
“Is the car locked?”
The clerk sat up straight. “Say, what do you think-” Zannis drew the Walther and showed it to the clerk, who said, “Oh,” then, “The key’s in the office, in the desk.”
Zannis gestured with the Walther and the clerk stood up, went into the office behind the reception desk, and searched in the bottom drawer until he found car keys on a ring.
“And next,” Zannis said, “I’ll want the key for the back door.”
“On a nail, just next to you.”
“Harry?”
Byer came around the desk; Zannis gave him the key. “Run this upstairs. Tell them to open the back door and get out right away.”
Byer hurried off and Zannis turned back to the clerk. “The shutter over the garage doorway, it’s locked?”
“Of course.”
“From inside? Is there an entry from the hotel?”
“No, it has a lock at the bottom, you have to go out to the sidewalk.”
“Get the key.”
Muttering under his breath, the clerk searched the middle drawer, threw pens, a rubber stamp, an ink pad, and miscellaneous papers on the desk. At last he found the key, and started to hand it to Zannis, who waved him off. “Is there gas in the car?” Zannis said.
“Yes.”
“Battery connected? Tires still on?”
“I charge the battery twice a week, late at night. The boss wants it ready to drive.”
“He does? Why?”
“The hell would I know? Maybe he wants to go somewhere.”
Zannis heard Byer, running down the stairs, likely waking every guest in the hotel.
“Now it’s time,” Zannis said to the clerk, “for you to go outside, unlock the shutter, and roll it up.”
“You see anybody else?”
“Why can’t your pal do it?”
Zannis rapped him on the shoulder blade with the barrel of the Walther, just hard enough.
The clerk mumbled something Zannis was not meant to hear and said, “All right, whatever you want.”
Keeping Byer behind him in the darkened lobby, Zannis unlocked the hotel door and watched as the clerk went out the door and turned left, toward the shuttered garage. Across the street, the Citroen idled, but Zannis could see only dim shapes behind the steamed-up windows.
The clerk came quickly through the door. “Done,” he said. “That Citroen out there, are they …?”
“Go back to sleep,” Zannis said.
“What about the boss’s car?”
“Send me a bill,” Zannis said. “After the war.” He turned to Byer. “Ready, Harry? We’re not going to run, we’re going to walk quickly. You get in the back and lie on the floor.”
“Why?” Byer’s eyes were wide.
