But to not close the door entirely…
They were all fatigued, but such a mistake was unthinkable. Reckless. Elaine pushed open the door and ensured it locked properly behind her. The light in the kitchen shone from a crack, dousing the hallway in a wash of dim gold.
She strode toward the room and shoved through the door with a mix of relief and irritation to discover which of them had been so forgetful. “You left the front door open.”
No one was within, but the room had been entirely upended. The chairs were flipped, the table absent a leg, the cabinets hanging open in defeat, the drawers pulled from their alcoves. Even her precious collection of breadcrumbs from the last two weeks was scattered on the floor like pigeon feed.
She pulled back instinctively.
Before she could recover from her surprise, strong hands grabbed her shoulders. She spun around, her fist flying.
Antoine ducked just before her hand could connect with his face. She gave him an exasperated look, too frightened to talk. He shrugged apologetically, also remaining quiet, and put his hand up to indicate she ought to wait in the kitchen. That was an order she could not obey. She shook her head, refusing for either one of them to be alone. Whoever had destroyed the kitchen might still be inside.
The thought chilled her. Immediately her mind summoned the image of Nicole as it so often did, of what she must have endured in those terrible hours before her death.
A shiver ran through Elaine, and she shook her head again a final time. Surely two would stand a better chance than one on their own.
The rest of the warehouse looked similar to the disheveled kitchen, all drawers pulled out, cabinets opened. A typewriter was missing, as well as a lockbox that contained several thousand francs.
Neither spoke, but Elaine knew what Antoine thought. She could not even stop the consideration herself, though it was met with a burden of guilt as soon as it hit her mind.
Perhaps Nicole had confessed.
And if she had, who could blame her?
As they were examining the damage, Marcel and Jean joined them, also taking inventory. Marcel emerged from the fake identity card room several minutes later, his face ashen with the realization that his original identity card with his real name had been taken along with the missing francs.
Though Marcel’s replacement would arrive in two days’ time, the attack surely felt like a noose tightening around his neck. He made a discreet call that afternoon, begging to stop production on the paper, but was once again denied.
Elaine was at his side when he set the receiver in the cradle, his face grim as he muttered to himself words he likely had not expected her to hear. “They have killed us all.”
Elaine averted her gaze to keep him from realizing she’d overheard even as her pulse kicked up at his ominous words.
Regardless of the danger, the paper would print on and they would be the crew to see it done.
Two days later, a stocky man known as Albert, with thick round glasses and a shock of white hair, arrived to shadow Marcel to eventually take his place. The man had a serious demeanor and lacked any lines around his eyes that suggested he had never smiled once in his life.
Still, Elaine was grateful someone would be assuming the role for Marcel, to allow him the opportunity to live his life once more. To reunite with his wife whom he had not seen in several months.
With the exception of Albert’s presence, the day was like any other with Antoine bent over a piece of art, Jean manning the Linotype machine, Elaine pumping the pedal on the old Minerva, her hands busily pulling the completed print while replacing it with a blank piece of paper on the small shelf.
A voice shouted from somewhere nearby, the word almost inaudible against the rhythmic thumping of the Minerva. “Surrender.”
Elaine glanced about, her foot ceasing its task as the machine slowed. It was just enough time to see Antoine and Jean share a frightened look before the warehouse erupted into chaos.