Read Chapter 7: The Fedora Man

The man in the fedora was good—too good. He kept his distance, but not so far that he'd lose her in the crowd. Élise caught his reflection in a shop window as she turned onto the Rue de Rivoli, and her stomach knotted. He wore a dark wool coat despite the spring warmth, and he never once looked directly at her. That was how she knew he was trained.

She clutched the Baudelaire volume against her chest like a shield and picked up her pace. The engraving sample was tucked between the pages—a small, exquisite etching of a bird in flight, Marcel's proof that the forger's work was worth the risk of contacting him. If the fedora man caught her with it, the pilots would die in a Gestapo cellar, and so would she.

The Métro entrance loomed ahead, its green railings slick with morning rain. She descended without hesitation, letting the echo of her heels on the stone steps announce her descent. Let him follow. She needed the crowd below.

The platform was thick with commuters—men in threadbare suits, women with ration coupons clutched in gloved hands, a priest reading his breviary with trembling lips. Élise pushed through them, murmuring apologies in French, her eyes scanning for an escape. The train was already pulling in, doors sighing open. She slipped aboard at the last possible moment and watched through the grimy window as the fedora man broke into a run.

He didn't make it.

The train lurched forward, and he stood on the platform, hands at his sides, face unreadable beneath the brim of his hat. She let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. But when the train stopped at the next station, she didn't get off. She rode two more stops, then doubled back on the opposite line, crossing the platform and weaving through the corridors until she was certain no one had followed.

By the time she emerged near the bookshop, her legs were trembling and her palms were slick with sweat. The Baudelaire volume was still there, pressed against her ribs. She'd have to tell Marcel about the tail. He wouldn't be pleased.

She rounded the corner onto her street and stopped dead.

The lights were on in the shop.

Élise pressed herself against the wall of the neighboring building and peered through the window. Inside, a figure moved behind the counter—tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair. Antoine. And he was… hammering.

She watched for a long moment, trying to make sense of it. He had a nail between his lips and a small wooden brace in his hand. The shelf near the back wall, the one that had been warped since the winter, was propped against the counter, and he was fitting a new joint into its frame. He worked with the ease of a man who had done it a hundred times before.

Her key to his apartment was in her pocket. He still had her locket—she was sure of it, had seen the glint of silver in his window—and he'd seen her leave his apartment the other day. What game was he playing? Repairing her shelves as if he were a helpful neighbor and not a man with a Gestapo uniform in his closet?

She pushed the door open. The bell chimed, and Antoine looked up, hammer paused mid-swing.

"Élise." He smiled—warm, boyish, utterly disarming. "I hope you don't mind. The latch on your back door was loose, and I remembered you'd mentioned it. I let myself in through the delivery entrance."

"You repaired my shelf."

"I repaired your shelf." He set the hammer down and brushed sawdust from his hands. "I owe you an apology. The other day, with Hauptmann Weber—I should have come down to check on you. He can be… imposing."

The name dropped like a stone. Weber. The hulking officer she'd seen in the window. Antoine said it casually, effortlessly, as if he were naming a neighbor or a postal carrier.

"I'm fine," she said, keeping her voice level. "No apology necessary."

"Still." He gestured to the shelf. "Consider it a peace offering. I'm sure life is complicated enough without a broken shelf to trouble you."

She watched him carefully, noting the way his eyes drifted to the book in her arms. He was too observant. She tucked the Baudelaire volume onto a shelf near the counter, sliding it into a gap where it could pass for part of the inventory.

"I didn't realize you were skilled with tools," she said.

"I'm skilled at many things." He smiled again. "It's a hazard of my profession."

"Translation?"

"Translators have to be precise. Menial labor, on the other hand, just takes persistence." He picked up a rag and wiped his hands. "You look pale, Élise. Did something happen?"

She hesitated. The question hung between them like a weapon. She could lie—say she'd been caught in the rain, or that the ration lines were longer than expected. But something in his tone made her pause. There was no mockery in it, no threat. Just curiosity. And she was so tired of being surrounded by men who wanted to hurt her.

"I was followed," she said. "On my way back from the market. A man in a fedora."

Antoine's face tightened. A flicker of something crossed his eyes—not surprise, exactly, but recognition.

"You lost him?"

"Yes."

"Good." He nodded slowly, studying the shelf he'd repaired. "That was wise. You should be careful. There are men in this city who watch the bookshops closely. They think literature is a cover for sedition."

"It often is," she said.

He looked up at her, and for a moment, she saw something genuine in his gaze. Then the mask slipped back into place, and he smiled.

"You're not like the others," he said. "The shopkeepers who cower when I walk in. You look me in the eye."

"Should I not?"

"Most people don't. Most people see the uniform and think they know the man." He moved toward the counter, and her hand drifted, instinctively, toward the shelf where she'd hidden the Baudelaire volume. "You've seen me in the uniform. And you're still here, speaking to me."

She said nothing.

"I think you know more than you let on," he continued. "And I think you're trying to decide whether I'm a wolf or a shepherd."

"Is that a question?"

"It's an invitation." He stopped at the counter, facing her across its worn wooden surface. "To ask me directly."

The silence stretched between them. Outside, she heard the clatter of a cart on the cobblestones, the distant shout of a newsboy. Inside, the only sound was the ticking of the clock on the shelf behind him.

"Fine." She gripped the edge of the counter. "Who do you work for, Antoine? Really?"

He looked at her for a long moment. Then he sighed, and the breath seemed to drain something out of him. His shoulders dropped, and his voice lowered until it was barely above a whisper.

"I work for the Abwehr," he said. "I am a translator for German military intelligence. I have been since the occupation began."

Her pulse hammered in her ears. Her hand found the cool edge of the counter, steadying herself.

"Then you're the enemy."

"Yes." He met her eyes without flinching. "But I'm not a loyalist."

She blinked. "What does that mean?"

"It means I've seen what they do, Élise. The arrests. The deportations. The files they ask me to translate—they think I don't understand what the words mean, but I do." He swallowed. "The Stukas that fire on civilians. The camps I've heard whispers about. I didn't join the Abwehr to serve the Reich. I joined to survive. But I can't keep quiet about everything I've seen."

"You're asking me to believe you're a good German. A kind Nazi."

"I'm not asking you to believe anything." He reached into his coat pocket, and she tensed. But his hand emerged holding a small folded piece of paper. "I'm asking you to take this to whoever you report to. Tell them I can be useful. Tell them I know things."

She didn't take it. "Why should I trust you?"

"Because I've been watching you." His voice was soft. "I saw you that night at the Jeu de Paume, passing that note to the woman in the green coat. I saw the courier you think you've been so careful with." He tilted his head. "I could have turned you in a dozen times, Élise. I didn't. And you found my uniform in my apartment—you know I'm not what I pretend to be. But I need you to know: I'm not what the uniform pretends I am, either."

She stared at him, her mind reeling. The paper hung in the air between them.

"What's on it?"

"The name of a man in the Gestapo." He placed the paper gently on the counter. "A double agent. He's been feeding the Abwehr the names of Resistance fighters for months. Your people have been dying because of him. I want him stopped."

Élise's fingers closed around the paper. She didn't open it, not yet. But she could feel its weight.

"Why now?" she asked.

"Because I saw you being followed today. And I know who sent the man with the fedora." Antoine's jaw tightened. "M. Lenoir knows about you, Élise. He knows who you are. And he's not the spy you think he is."