China Blue (The Dudley Sisters Saga Book 3) by Madalyn Morgan (top 100 novels of all time TXT) 📕

Alain said, taking off his right shoe. He took several notes from it and handed them to Claire. ‘Get a decent bottle of wine and some cakes, if you can. On second thoughts, take the lot.’ He took off his other shoe. ‘It’s what the colonel gave us for weapons and bribes and stuff.’ Claire’s mouth fell open. ‘Men are stopped more often than women – and if I’m stopped with this amount of money on me, I’ll be arrested. You, on the other hand, can bat your eyelashes and say it’s your parents’ life savings that they have given you to take to your grandparents in Paris. Keep a couple of notes in your purse for food and wine and put a wad in the compartment in the bottom of your shopping basket, the rest in your shoes.’ Claire looked questioningly at Alain. ‘If you’re searched they’ll find it in your basket, and won’t check your shoes.’ When Claire had done as Alain instructed she put her shoes back on, taking care not to scrunch up the notes, buckled them and stood up. ‘You’d better take your case too, in case we get separated.’

Claire hated the thought of them being separated, but took the case. ‘I suppose if I was going all the way to Paris to visit Granny, I’d have a change of clothes with me.’ She looked into Alain’s eyes and fought back the tears.

‘Don’t worry, China, it’s only to be on the safe side. Yes?’

‘Yes,’ she said, reluctantly.

‘Good. And remember, if one of us gets stopped by the Gestapo, or any member of their puppet show, the other one keeps walking. We walk and we don’t look back for anything. Claire? Is that clear?’ Alain put his hand under her chin and lifted her face. She looked up. ‘Is that clear?’

‘Yes!’ she snapped. ‘Of course it is!’

‘Good. Come on then, little cousin, I’ll buy you something nice to eat at lunchtime, if you’re a good girl,’ he laughed.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Claire sauntered along pretending to be uninterested in her surroundings while taking everything in. A convoy of Field cars and black Mercedes, the car of choice for German officers, passed them on the road going into Gisoir. By the time she arrived in the town centre the vehicles were parked along the main boulevard. Soldiers stood around smoking cigarettes and talking loudly. As she approached them they lowered their voices. As she drew level they whispered. Claire could feel their eyes on her, watching her as she walked past.

There was a sudden burst of laughter and one of them shouted, ‘Here pussy, pussy!’

‘Stupid French bitch,’ another said. ‘She’s got a fat arse.’

‘Good to hang onto when giving it a shag.’ They all laughed.

Claire stopped dead. She recognised two of the voices from the farm the night before. The braggart wasn’t one of them. Even so, she wanted to round on them, tell them what filthy murdering pigs they were – but she didn’t react. She lifted her head, confident in the knowledge that they didn’t know she could understand what they were saying, and walked on. At the bakery, she caught her reflection in the window and pretended to check her appearance. Instead she checked theirs. She committed to memory every strand of hair, every skin tone, eye colour, lip and nose shape. Claire hadn’t always appreciated the photographic memory that she’d had since childhood, but she did now. She slipped her hand into her coat pocket and fingered the small silver hair slide she had found by the well. If she ever saw the brute who raped and probably killed the girl, she hoped it would be on a dark night when she had Alain and the Belland brothers with her.

She browsed the produce in the window of the bakery and opened the door. Loud laughter and more rude comments followed her in. She closed the door firmly and asked the baker for a loaf and a couple of buns. ‘I promised my cousin I would try to find something sweet for him,’ she explained. The door opened and Claire could tell by the sudden look of fear in the baker’s eyes that it wasn’t a paying customer. Claire could feel the German soldier’s eyes boring into her. She straightened and watched the baker take a loaf from the shelf behind. Turning back to the counter, he almost dropped it. Claire smiled, trying to reassure him.

The baker took two iced buns from beneath the counter. He wrapped them in a sheet of white paper, did the same to the loaf, and handed them to her.

‘Thank you,’ she said, giving him the food tickets. Putting the white parcels in her basket, Claire turned to leave. ‘Excuse me,’ she said to the soldier, but he didn’t move. ‘Please…’ she said politely, looking into his face. While he stood like an arrogant stuffed shirt, she took in every whisker and blemish on his face. In a few seconds she had committed to memory everything he saw in his shaving mirror. It was him. The drunken soldier from the farm – the bastard who, if he hadn’t killed the girl in the well, had raped her – was barring her way. Eventually he moved. ‘Thank you,’ she said, in a voice much higher than usual. She walked out of the shop and into the sunshine, hoping he hadn’t noticed how frightened she was.

Letting the door swing shut behind her, Claire turned towards the town square. Her heart was thumping against her ribs and her legs felt like jelly. If she could make it as far as the market she’d hide among the stalls. At the entrance she looked back and let out a long sigh. The soldier who had followed her into the bakery was nowhere to be seen. Relieved, she walked into the covered market. She bought a small camembert and