Estelle was the recipient of that appreciation now. At the enthusiastic and insistent request of the officers crowded into the room, she stood by the piano and sang Rina Ketty’s “J’attendrai,” which never failed to please her audience. It was probably a nod to the glamour and extravagance of the hotel, or perhaps it was the lyrics or the melody, but the moment she began, all conversations stopped and every eye was upon her.

Including those of the man who sat in a chair just off to the side, as if holding himself apart from the other officers. At this distance, in the soft light, it was difficult to see the insignias on his dark uniform but the way he was looking at her made her uneasy. He was wiry in build, his face thin, his eyes close-set beneath well-coifed blond hair. While the other men generally gazed at her with expressions that ranged from admiration to lust, enchantment to indifference, this man was looking at her with what only could be described as suspicion.

It unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

Estelle finished her song to a warm round of applause, aware that the officer’s eyes had not left her. She ignored him and withdrew to the bar, taking herself out of the spotlight and away from the attention of the solitary man. Perhaps she would not linger tonight. Perhaps it would be best if she slipped away and came back another time—

“One wonders why such a beautiful woman is all alone.”

Estelle should have moved faster. Slowly she turned, pasting a blank expression on her face.

“Good evening,” she said with a vacuous smile. After letting the seconds tick away, she allowed her smile to slip. “I’m sorry, I don’t speak German,” she lied. “I don’t know what you just said.”

“I said I enjoyed your song.” The officer switched to French.

“Oh. Well, thank you.” She tipped her head flirtatiously as she noted the Gestapo uniform, the strip of black at his shoulder, and the SS runes at his collar. A sergeant, perhaps, given the absence of any sort of braid.

“I am Scharführer Schwarz,” he said, confirming her guess. “And you are?” Cold blue eyes bored into hers.

“Estelle Allard,” she replied, wondering if this was simply a lonely officer’s attempt to make conversation. She was used to the overtures of Luftwaffe officers but she found advances from those associated with the Gestapo unnerving in their intensity and directness. The Gestapo were not so easily manipulated or deflected.

“You live here? In this hotel?” he asked, leaning toward her.

She forced a gay laugh. “Alas, no.”

“Then why are you here?” He wasn’t smiling.

“I don’t understand. Why does anyone come here if not for a good time?” She giggled. “And to admire such handsome men in uniform.”

The sergeant didn’t smile. “How often do you come to the hotel?”