Page 50 of The Last Library of Paris

For a second I considered telling him about our deliveries, but no. Not yet, I thought. Maybe in time. This could still be a trick.

‘Where are these stories now?’

‘In books,’ he said. He looked quite proud of himself. ‘My father was a bookbinder. I’ve bound the stories into books.’

‘How many?’

‘Four.’ He swallowed. ‘But I have just been to Poland. I have more stories to tell.’

‘What are you asking?’

He gave a tiny smile. ‘I live with three other officers,’ he said. ‘All three of them speak excellent English. I can’t keep the books at home. It’s too risky.’

‘You want me to take them?’

‘I thought the best place to hide books would be in a library.’

‘Do you think they’re important stories?’

‘I know they’re important.’ He looked far away for a second, his eyes dark. ‘One day this will be over, and we will need to tell the world what they did.’

‘Then I’ll keep them,’ I said. ‘Bring them to me and I will keep them.’

Chapter 13

I barely slept a wink that night. I tossed and turned, worried about Marcus showing up at the library.

Despite him frightening me when he showed up at the library, I trusted him. But was I being foolish? I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t even sure I could trust my own instincts anymore. Look how I’d taken against Alain when I first met him. And now, well, I wasn’t sure. I was convinced he was making up his tales of being in the Resistance – making himself sound more interesting than he really was. But he was certainly proving helpful. He was always willing to muck in with deliveries and do whatever else we needed. He had been kind to Maurice. He always let us know when there was – not always official – food for sale at the market.

And Guy clearly thought the world of him. Which was a worry in itself, if I was honest. While I thought it was no one’s business how people felt about one another, I knew the Nazis took a very dim view of certain relationships.

The trouble was, I thought, as I gave up on sleep altogether and pushed my tangled sheets aside … The trouble was that I just found Alain really annoying. He was so full of himself.

Just yesterday he’d been helping me shelve some books when he’d sighed happily. ‘This is very calming work,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’re pleased to have me helping with deliveries so you have more time for this.’

‘Very pleased,’ I’d said, through slightly gritted teeth. And then because I couldn’t help myself, I added: ‘I’m not sure how we managed without you.’

‘I was saying that to Guy,’ said Alain, cheerfully. ‘It’s baffling really. You’re lucky I have time to help, because my friends in the Resistance are begging me to do more for them, too.’

‘Is that right?’ I said, shoving a book into the shelf.

‘It’s hard to say no,’ said Alain. He looked genuinely upset about it. ‘So I try to do it all. I don’t want to let anyone down.’

‘No, indeed not.’

I’d almost taken the brandy out of my desk drawer again after that conversation. At this rate I’d have to buy more before the week was out.

Now I decided to make the most of my early wake-up and go for a walk before I went to the library.

I got dressed and felt my stomach rumble. I thought of the times when I’d stop off for a croissant on my way to work – those days were long gone.

Then I got on my bicycle and headed to the river. I liked being by the water. The rain had cleared away the stuffy heat, and the city looked clean and bright this morning. It was so early there were few people about. Paris was all mine and I could pretend the Nazis had never come.

I stopped by the river and looked down into the swirling brown water. That was always the same. The Seine would have looked this way during the Revolution, and it would look this way long after the Nazis had gone. Surely, they would leave one day? I kept my gaze firmly away from the Eiffel Tower with its black and red flags.

Eventually, I got back onto my bicycle and cycled up to the road, and across the bridge and down the other side. Up ahead, on a corner, I saw a group of about four men, all wearing the same sort of clothes that Alain wore: baggy trousers and caps. I watched as they said goodbye to one another and all went separate ways. One crossed the road in front of me, heading down a side street, and I realised that he actually was Alain. I could tell by his walk more than anything else. He had a very distinctive gait – head held high, chest puffed out.

I thought about waving but he was just too far away, and he was looking in the opposite direction as he crossed.