What had happened? Had the woman been unable to convince the French Gestapo to let Bernadette go? Had she failed to save the child from the dungeons at 93 Rue Lauriston? Would the Gestapo bastards soon be coming for Jeanne Boucher as a facilitator for the American OSS?

Or…?

Madame Jeanne Boucher called herself a fool for not thinking of another possibility from the beginning. She doubted that even Madame Richter had thought of it at the time. But now, knowing the evil of which the woman was capable, Jeanne was certain she would not be returning her designer for her fitting. In fact, they would never see Madame Richter in the House of Boucher again. That was a blessing for which Jeanne should be grateful, but not for the curse it would mean for the courageous little Bernadette Dufor.

The shock of her new line of thought compelled Jeanne to unlock a drawer, remove a bottle of gin, and take a long swig. Then she stood and straightened the peplum of her jacket. She was in no mood for sass from a bony clothes hanger who would still be waiting tables if it hadn’t been for the scarcity of the mannequins who’d fled Paris at the outset of the war. Jeanne had changed her mind. The girl would wear the proper shoes or else.

*  *  *

Karl was in a state of quiet frenzy. A graduate of a military academy, albeit an undistinguished one, he had been disciplined to obey and never to question a superior’s orders. This grounding in obedience had been reinforced by a stint in the Waffen SS before Colonel Derrick Albrecht plucked him from the ranks to serve him in the Sicherheitsdienst, primarily as his driver but with the understanding that he was to become his man of all purposes. Karl had gladly accepted the assignment. To serve an officer of Colonel Derrick Albrecht’s superior caliber was an honor, no matter what he should call upon him to do. The insubordinate urge to question the colonel’s decisions, motives, and methods had never tempted him.

Until now.