Paris was freezing. Even colder than New York. Yvette waited while the young lawyer’s clerk who had met her at the Gare Saint-Lazare patted his pockets and muttered to himself. Monsieur LeBrun was small, neat, and brilliantined, with round black spectacles like bicycle tires framing his dark eyes.
For mercy’s sake, stop fussing and let’s get somewhere warm, she begged him silently. But with such men, one must be patient.
“Ah!” He fished out a paper from an inner coat pocket with an expression of mild triumph. “You will be staying at . . .” He frowned at his itinerary as if it confused him. “The Ritz.”
Yvette nearly dropped her suitcase. “Vraiment?” She peered over LeBrun’s shoulder to check, but there it was in black and white. Louise Dulac had hauled her all the way across the Atlantic to testify at her trial. Knowing the film star, Yvette had not expected simple gratitude, much less accommodation fit for a king…
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