Shadows of Yesterday

Chapter 2

Emilie Dufort was born in a small village near the Rhine River. She had come to Paris several years before to work in her uncle’s store, All Things Napoleon. Specializing in military memorabilia: busts, books, sabers, guns, maps, clothing—it housed a huge collection devoted to the Napoleonic Wars. Located in the fifth arrondissement near the Sorbonne, her clientele included intellects from the university, collectors from all over Europe, and those who loved French history. Emilie had worked hard, saved her money and when her uncle passed, she inherited his shop. But she was much more than the owner of an antique store.

She had met Jacques Dufort through a planned introduction eighteen months before. He was a government official who supposedly worked in the transportation department although his role was never discussed. Even though she pretended she didn’t, she knew exactly what he did. But she had learned early in their relationship not to ask questions, so she didn’t. Married less than a year, not much escaped her, even though it seemed as if it did.

Jacques occasionally met acquaintances in his study. Most came at night, speaking in hushed whispers she could never hear. His most frequent contact was a man named Guy Barbier, who Emilie never liked. She once interrupted their meeting and Barbier rudely asked her to leave. They had shared nothing but looks of disdain ever since. But Emilie suspected this meeting was different. Jacques had never met anyone so early in the morning, while he waited impatiently at the door for them to arrive. It must be critical. From the kitchen, she could faintly hear them, able to decipher a word or two.

Emilie glanced at the clock. She had to leave. It was almost time to open her store, and she wanted to first stop at the café around the corner. She would use the back door, so she didn’t disturb Jacques and his mysterious guest. But she wanted the newspaper, which she had left in the parlor. As quietly as she could, she went to an Art Nouveau table by the sofa, the newspaper upon it. As she grabbed it and turned to go, she heard Jacques mention industrial diamonds and radar. She paused to listen.

She could hear them clearly: Camille, Antwerp, Sternberg & Sons, diamonds, a man named Roger, two satchels, London, the radio. It was her first detailed hint of her husband’s clandestine operations. She shouldn’t eavesdrop; it was too easy for her husband to catch her. But she couldn’t resist. It was too important—something she needed to hear.

“Bring the diamonds to me as a last resort,” Jacques said, his voice louder. He was coming closer.

“I understand,” Camille replied. “But now I must go if I hope to catch the train.”

“It might be the last one,” Jacques said, “given how quickly the Germans advance.”

Emilie leaned against the wall so she wouldn’t be seen. The front door opened.

“I can’t stress how important this is,” Jacques said. “Or how dangerous.”

Emilie hurried out the back door. She went through the alley to the intersection, eyeing dark clouds that had broken to show the sun. As she reached the corner, the black Renault that carried Camille turned onto the boulevard. Emilie looked away.

She went to a cafe on the Boulevard Saint-Germain and sat at her favorite outdoor table, close to a window box so she could smell the flowers. Military trucks drove by, and an occasional motorcycle, hurrying to reach their destination, as if the Germans would get there first. Pedestrians passed on the pavement, people living their lives as they knew they must. The café was crowded, tiny tables with patrons around them, many with newspapers. Sandbags hid nearby buildings, covering windows that would c***k and shatter should bombs arrive.

Emilie sipped her coffee, scanning the Paris-Soir. Headlines screamed German victories: Holland conquered, Belgium falling, the enemy on Antwerp’s doorstep. She thought of Camille, the woman who had met with her husband, and the limited time she had to get the diamonds—if she even reached Antwerp. Emilie was immersed in the article when interrupted.

Paris-Soir“May I join you?” a man asked.

She looked up, shading her eyes with her hand. He stood by her table holding a cup of coffee, average height with brown hair and eyes, attractive and anxious, early forties at most. His suit was hand-tailored, his shirt silk. He seemed better off than most. Maybe not wealthy, but comfortable.

“I prefer to sit alone,” she said. She looked away, wondering why he was there. Was it planned, or was he only interested in an attractive woman sitting alone?

“As do most,” he replied. “I do offer my apologies. But we have something to discuss.”

Emilie eyed him curiously—bold, but polite, a stranger wanting more. His accent wasn’t quite right—French wasn’t his primary language. English, maybe, but she couldn’t say for sure.

“Holland falls, Belgium falters,” he continued, pointing to her paper. “What does it mean for France?”

“I wonder the same,” she said, glancing at the article.

He sat, uninvited but not caring. “Louie Bassett,” he offered.

The corners of her lips curled in a smile. “You are persistent, M. Bassett.”

“I have to be,” he said. “My work demands it.”

“It does?” she asked, not introducing herself. “What is your work, M. Bassett?”

He hesitated. “I’m in the information business.”

She looked at him strangely. “A vague description.”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” he said. He leaned closer. “Intentionally, I might add.”

Emilie smiled. She was beginning to like him, her unwanted visitor. “What can I do for you, M. Louie Bassett, who is in the information business and has come to my table uninvited? I suspect this isn’t a chance meeting. Or do you often join women you don’t know for coffee?”

He shifted in his seat. “No, not normally. Only women I’ve been instructed to contact.”

With his simple reply, she knew his purpose. She feigned ignorance, casting a curious glance.

He leaned forward, as if sharing a secret. “But I’m sure you knew I would come. Or someone like me.”

She tensed, her suspicions confirmed. Afraid of a trap, a clumsy attempt to convince her to cooperate before she was ready, she tried to disengage. “I thought I was special,” she teased. “And that you found a woman you couldn’t forget. Is that not the reason you are here, M. Louie Bassett?”

He smiled, nodding politely. “Yes, I suppose it is. You are special. But for reasons not obvious to most.”

Emilie glanced at those around her, their thoughts consumed with a war coming closer. She turned to Louie. “Tell me what you want, M. Bassett.”

“I have a message from your family.”

She hesitated. “What might that message be?”

“It’s time to play your part,” he said softly.

She knew what he meant but pretended she didn’t. “If my family wanted to send me a message, they would call me.”

“Except the telephone lines are down from the fighting.”

She knew he was right but didn’t comment. “It’s a strange message, delivered by a man I do not know.”

“It’s quite clear to me,” Louie said. He averted her gaze to look at the tables closest, making sure no one could hear.

Emilie eyed him cautiously, unable to confirm what he claimed. “I have no information, M. Bassett, if that’s what you want. Even if I did, I wouldn’t share it.”

He sat back in the chair, his gaze fixed on hers. “This can be easy, Mme. Dufort,” he said, his smile fading. “Or it can be difficult.”

Her eyes widened. She wasn’t surprised he knew her name, only that he was so direct. “I don’t like your tone.”

“I know you don’t,” he continued. “I can’t afford to be nice, to exchange pleasantries, to gradually get to know you. I don’t have time. And quite frankly, neither do you.”

Emilie folded her newspaper and prepared to depart. “Our conversation has ended.”

He put his hand on her forearm. “It’s important to stay a moment longer, Mme. Dufort.”

“I prefer not to.”

“You’re in Paris for a reason. Just as I am.”

She glared at his hand on her forearm. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His face firmed. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. No one in Paris knows who Emilie Dufort really is. No one except for me.”

“Maybe no one cares,” she said, standing to go.

“The time has come,” Louie Bassett said, also standing. “As you knew it would.”

She paused, eyeing him coldly. “I decide when the time has come, M. Bassett. Not you.”