Read Online The Missing Italian Girl by Barbara Pope - Free Book Online

along its windowless side. For an instant, she thought of turning back and running. But she had to know what was happening. What if they had found Angela? Maura glanced at the driver, who sat smoking a cigarette, reins in hand, as indifferent and impassive as the horses he commanded. Heart pounding, she walked by as if she had no interest in his presence, as if she were completely innocent.
    When she rounded the corner onto the rue de l’Arbelète, she heard the shouting. A score of men and women had gathered in front of the dank wineshop across from her building. For one insane, hopeful moment, she imagined the police were there to quell a drunken brawl. Then she understood what they were saying, and she knew. “Foreigners!” “Anarchists!” “Killers!” “Bombers!” An old crone, screaming with righteous anger, stepped in front of the crowd and pointed toward the entrance to Maura’s building. Vera and Lidia stumbled out, their hands tied behind their backs. They were being poked and prodded with rifles by three uniformed men. Despite their ill treatment and the curses being flung at them, they held their heads high.
    Maura flattened herself against a wall. She felt as if someone had grabbed her by the throat and was squeezing the life out of her. Was there some mistake? Had they really come for her and Angela? Maura froze in place as the frightening entourage approached. She almost cried out when she heard footsteps scurrying behind her. A toothless old woman jostled her, trying to get a better view. “Looks like those foreigners are at it again,” the woman crowed to her companion, a man in a blue worker’s smock, carrying a street sweeper’s broom. The man grinned and shrugged his shoulders, enjoying the spectacle. Much to Maura’s relief, they ignored her.
    As the police and their prisoners got closer and closer to the corner, Maura caught Vera’s eye. Instinctively she reached for the brooch she had “borrowed” from the Russian girl. Vera shook her head ever so slightly. She wasn’t worried about jewelry or borrowed clothes. She had a more urgent message to convey: “Act like you don’t know us.”
    “What are you looking at?” one of the policemen said as he struck the tall Russian girl in the ribs with the butt of his rifle.
    She gasped with pain, but refused to bend. “I’m looking at the poor people of Paris. Those you oppress,” she said loud enough for all to hear.
    Maura’s finger nails clawed into the wall. Bullies! She wanted to run up and slap the vicious brute. But she could do nothing. The police might have found Barbereau. They wouldn’t care that Pyotr didn’t mean to do it, that he was only saving Angela. They’d say that she and Angela helped murder the bastard, and then, and then, they’d happily let go of the Russian girls and drag her and Angela all the way to the guillotine.
    The toothless old woman stepped forward and spit on Lidia. Not knowing what to do, Maura glanced at Vera, who again signaled with a slight shake of head, do nothing . Some of wineshop habitués trailed the terrible procession through the narrow street, hooting and shaking their fists. Sweating with fear and from the relentless heat of the waning afternoon, Maura wound her way past them toward her building. Angela, she had to find Angela. Maman , she bit her lip, the plea came unbidden into her mind. Maman . Oh, to be home again. Oh, to be back to the way things were, as miserable as they were.
    “I hope you weren’t part of their plots.”
    The stocky concierge, heightened by her clogs, stepped in front of Maura, blocking her entrance to the building. Every concierge that Maura had ever known was nosy, controlling the comings and goings of tenants and resenting the cleaning up they had to do. Maura had always done her best to steer clear of them. This one was not about to let her pass.
    “You heard what I said, missy. I know you are up there with them.”
    “What did they do?” Maura tried to