“And what does that have to do with me?”

The tall blond woman reached into her handbag. She withdrew a small brass cylinder, a logo in crimson ink swirled across one side. “Here.”

Estelle took it from the agent. “Lipstick?”

“Yes. And this.” Celine delved into her handbag again and withdrew a beautifully engraved silver powder compact with the same logo across the top. She passed it to Estelle.

“What are these?”

“A sample of the small fortune in black market cosmetics I currently have in my hotel room. What I was supposed to help my husband sell.”

“Sell to whom?”

“To the wives of the German officers and diplomats staying in the Ritz suites, the mistresses of collaborators and industrialists enjoying their new position in high society in the Ritz dining rooms, and the actresses and starlets that seem to crawl out of the Ritz bedsheets at regular intervals.”

Estelle stared at her. “You’re well informed.”

Celine shrugged.

“And is this still your intention? To sell to the…women at the Ritz?”

“Perhaps. I still need entrance to the hotel.”

Estelle opened the compact and examined the pressed powder. “With an introduction from me,” she said, snapping the compact closed again, “these will sell quickly. These women you speak of will be delighted. Though I warn you, competition for the best of what you offer will inevitably incite fierce grudges.”

“Mmm.”

“The couture houses that still remain open would likely buy the whole lot from you without even blinking,” Estelle added, “if you needed to get rid of these and were considering a different approach.”

Celine seemed to ponder her answer. “How would you have introduced us if I had arrived with my husband?”

Estelle handed the compact and lipstick back. “Something very casual. A couple I met while shopping, perhaps. We fell into conversation, you mentioned your reason for being in Paris, and I would have suggested that you might get a better price presenting your wares to the discriminating individuals at the Ritz as opposed to wholesale liquidation to a couture house.”

“Clever.”

“Not clever. Safe. You know nothing about me, and I know nothing about you other than what we’ve presented publicly. Keep distance maximized and lies minimized.”

The agent gazed at Estelle, her expression impenetrable. Estelle hid a frown. She was generally very good at reading people but she couldn’t read this woman.

“I need someone who knows the Ritz,” Celine said after a long silence. “Its residents and, more importantly, its layout.”

“And you think that I have this knowledge?”

“You spend a great deal of time at the Ritz. With your wealth, your beauty, your style, you are accepted as one of them.”

Trepidation stirred within Estelle. “Who told you all that?”