“You are foolish,” she said slowly. “You don’t think he’d let me get away, do you? Or testify against him?”

She looked past me suddenly and I saw confusion and then terror in her eyes. “No!” she shouted and tried to grab me and drag me down to the floor. At the same moment there was a deafening explosion and we fell together, knocking over a table and chairs.

I got to my knees, shaking. “Jeanine, are you all right?” I looked down at her. She was lying sprawled like a rag doll. Her mouth was open in surprise and her eyes were staring. And blood was spreading across the floor. “I’ll go for help,” I said.

A small smile spread across her face. “My sister,” she murmured, and she reached out a hand to me. Then the light went out of her eyes.

I was on my feet. The shot had to have come from the slightly open window. “Help!” I shouted. “Help. She’s been—” In my state of panic I couldn’t remember the French word for “shot.” Or for “gun.”

Nobody came. I ran outside. I knew the shooter might still be waiting for me in the alleyway, but there were people in the street now—coming home from work, going for an evening stroll. Some had gathered, looking around nervously after the gunshot.

“Help!” I shouted again. “She’s hurt. Get a doctor, quickly.”

Some people hurried past or backed away from me, but then I heard a shout from inside the building and Robert appeared at the doorway behind me. “She’s dead,” he shouted. His gaze focused on me. “You killed her.” He pointed at me. “This woman killed Jeanine.”

A crowd was gathering. “No,” I shouted back. “I didn’t kill her. She was—” Why couldn’t I remember the word for “shot”? I tried desperately to think of hunting and shooting expeditions—had I ever had to speak French at one? I didn’t think so. “Somebody through the window . . .” I said. “Bang. One time and—”

I looked up and there was Jean-Paul de Ronchard at the edge of the crowd, making his way toward me.

Chapter 33

Chapter 33

In Nice and beyond
January 28, 1933