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She struggled to catch her breath. Had she just put his life in danger?
That evening, she prepared two separate pots of the same meal. One she laced with aconite, a poison that she knew to be fast-acting and deadly. She had found it growing in one of the parks, like a weed, and instinct had made her pick it a few days before.
When Busch had arrived at the restaurant half an hour later, he had his arm around Henri’s shoulders.
‘What’s this about you saying that you don’t need help tonight, Marianne – who is going to serve us drinks? I persuaded young Henri here that he was needed.’
Marianne paled. Her heart started to pound and it was all she could do not to scream at him to get out. She tried and failed to school her expression. ‘Oh, monsieur, when you said you wanted a private restaurant I thought I would make sure it was truly so,’ she protested in horror.
His eyes widened. ‘Well, I do not need to be private from you or your staff, I am sure by now we can trust one another, right?’ He smiled.
‘Of course, monsieur.’
‘Good.’
Marianne swallowed. ‘Well, I will go check on the food.’
He nodded, and asked Henri to come and take their drinks order.
In the kitchen, Marianne was a mess of nerves. When Henri came in, some ten minutes later and began opening bottles of beer and pouring wine, she came to him in a rush. ‘Why are you here?’ she hissed.
He frowned. ‘Madame, please, I just couldn’t be there.’
‘You shouldn’t be here, Henri. Not tonight.’
‘Please, madame, don’t start.’
There was a call from the other side of the hatch for Henri. ‘Where’s my beer?’ and Henri hurried to fill the order.
Marianne took a deep breath, tried and failed to steady her nerves.
Their special guest was Karl Lange, who was high up in the Nazi propaganda machine, which was doing overtime with Paris, and Louisa, the French informant, who was dressed in red, her sharp face softened by the glow of the candlelight. When Marianne came out to pour the wine, Louisa shot her a defiant look.
Busch smiled at her. ‘Do you know Louisa?’ he asked her in German.
Marianne shook her head. But she’d heard of her and despised her on principle. She remembered Geoff’s expression earlier, the shock and the surprise. For ages they had suspected they had an informant… this was her. Her blue eyes turned dark as she regarded the younger woman.
‘Well, you should, you have so much in common. She too has seen the value of collaboration.’
‘Has she?’ asked Marianne, fixing the other woman with a tight smile.
‘Oh yes,’ said Louisa. ‘Well, we all have to pick sides at some point. I just bet on the winning horse.’
‘I like to bet on the rider personally,’ said Marianne. ‘They are the ones who end up surprising you.’
‘I don’t like surprises,’ said Busch, giving her a pointed look. Marianne swallowed.
When Marianne went back inside the kitchen she struggled to calm her shaking limbs.
From the hatch she heard the talk turn towards Louisa’s list and the forced removals of Jews hiding across the city. She heard Busch’s voice carrying loudly; they were no longer trying to disguise or muffle their voices. She stood on tiptoe to try and get a glimpse of the list but their arms were in the way. She’d have to try and get it later, somehow.
When Henri served the meal, he came back with a puzzled look on his face. He came to fetch another bottle of wine. ‘Madame, Busch says he wants to speak to you about the stew.’
Marianne felt a wave of anxiety threaten to engulf her.
‘Oh yes. Does it need salt?’ she said loud enough for anyone to hear. Then she put on her sunniest face, and took the bottle from Henri. ‘I’ll pour,’ she said, going out to see what he wanted.
No one had touched their food. She saw that straight away. She went to Busch’s side. ‘Henri said you wanted to speak to me?’
