“She was counting on that.” The singer paused and gazed into her drink. “I, on the other hand, was hoping for the contrary. You will forgive a little jealousy on my part—we are rivals, you see. She didn’t tell you that, did she?”

“No,” I said.

“Ah, evidently Madeleine is not as trustworthy a storyteller as you might have imagined. And, believe me, I have been a far more faithful servant to her than you. But you…” A bitter expression stole across her heavily made-up face. “You are Koahu. You will always hold a special place in her heart.” She threw the rest of the calvados down her throat. “Never mind. There are more important matters to consider than our own sordid little romances. Did you see Chanel?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“It all checked out.”

“Did you do what Madeleine asked?”

“What with? I had no bullets.”

The singer cursed under her breath. “Do you have the manuscript, at least?”

“No. But I know where it is. All I need is a boltcutter.”

She took a long breath. “Very well, I’ll organize to have someone take you to her. But not tonight. Tomorrow morning at ten. At Saint-Eustache, the church behind Les Halles. An old widow will be praying in the front pew. Kneel down in the pew directly behind her. When she leaves, follow her. From a distance. She’ll take you to Madeleine. And you’ll get your boltcutter. Whatever you do, don’t go back to your apartment. You can’t be too cautious. Chanel has enormous power, and anyone left in Paris right now is suspect, even these old White Russians here tonight.” She glanced around the room at the nightclub patrons, who were drinking and smoking as if invasion were a banality. “They’ll be volunteers in the Germans’ welcoming committee. They’ve seen a lot worse than this. They’re all hoping Hitler will invade Russia next and return their family estates to them.” She looked back at me with an expression of crushing sadness. “Tomorrow morning, when you go to Saint-Eustache, make sure you’re not being followed.” She stood. “Madeleine won’t leave with you, you know, if that’s what you’re hoping. She must stay here. In a strange way even she doesn’t understand, she must stay close to Chanel.” She shot me a glance that struck like a dagger. “She loves you, but she doesn’t need you. Not anymore.” She turned. “Drinks are on me,” she said to the barman, and without saying goodbye, she strode back to the stage, hips swaying, just as the other musicians emerged from behind the red velvet curtain and took up their instruments. She curled her hands around the microphone and began to sing. No one seemed to notice, let alone care. I finished my drink and left.