Clash by Night by Doreen Owens Malek Read Free Book Online

but it struck her as odd that he’d said anything to her at all. She was powerless to stop him from burning the place to the ground if he wanted to do that, and they both knew it.
    She stood rooted to the spot as Becker took off his cap and held it in one hand, his fingers locked behind his back. The sun glinted on his black hair, burnishing it, as he walked up and down the rows in the single, vaulted room. He paused occasionally to examine a volume, and finally stopped before her again, with Kurt at his heels.
    “I have discovered that I need your advice,” Becker said in his slightly ironic manner, studying her face.
    “My advice?” Lysette replied, startled into speech.
    “Yes, that’s right,” Becker continued in his formal, stylized French. “Your name is?”
    “Remy. Lysette Remy.”
    “Madame, or Mademoiselle?”
    “Madame.”
    “Well, Madame Remy, I find myself with time on my hands these days,” he stated with a hint of sarcasm, “and I’m not very familiar with your French writers. I would like you to select something for me.”
    Lysette didn’t answer for a moment, aware that he was playing with her. She could believe that he was bored; he’d obviously been bred to a more active, interesting life than was his lot in Bar-le-Duc. He must have decided to amuse himself by baiting the local librarian.
    “We have no German volumes,” she said quietly, her gaze meeting his and locking with it.  
    Becker nodded, as if she had parried his thrust. “I read French tolerably well, Madame. Why don’t you choose what you yourself would like to read? I’ll wait.”
    He continued to look at her. His eyes were brown, and arresting, with thick black lashes and heavily marked brows. She’d only seen him at a distance before today, but heard that he was forbidding, frightening. Yet she wasn’t afraid, she discovered with a sense of wonder; she had been when he first arrived, but not now. It was curious and a little thrilling. Why wasn’t she afraid?
    “ D’accord,” she agreed, inclining her head, and slipped out from behind the desk. She made her selections quickly, returning to place them on the wooden counter between her and the German officer. Becker studied the stack in silence: Proust, Stendahl, Flaubert’s Madame Bovary , Zola’s Therese Raquin , and the short stories of de Maupassant. He looked up at Lysette, impressed.
    “Perhaps you have already read some of these?” she murmured meaningfully, and Becker couldn’t help smiling in response.
    “Certainly, Madame , but it will be a pleasure to reacquaint myself with such greatness. Allow me to salute your good taste.”
    “I like to think that we have some to compare with Goethe and Remarque,” Lysette said quietly.
    Becker eyed her sharply. “Remarque’s work has been burned in my country,” he said, watching her reaction. “Anti-government sentiments.”
    “I have a copy in French translation, if you would like to re-examine his ideas,” Lysette replied, and his lips twitched.
    Kurt Hesse watched the byplay in amazement. Becker never unbent with any of these people, he treated them all with same stiff propriety. Yet here he was, smiling at this little librarian with genuine amusement. Becker turned his head suddenly, and Hesse wiped his face clean of any expression.
    “Take these for me,” Becker said in German, gesturing to the pile of books, and Hesse stepped forward smartly to obey.
    Becker looked back at Lysette. He examined her more closely, intrigued with her handling of the situation. Thirties, light brown hair in a bun, fine lines around mouth and eyes, navy blue cotton dress with cloth belt and short cap sleeves. Nondescript, really, and too slim for his taste. He liked them zaftig , buxom; his wife was a statuesque Brunhilde. Still, there was something about this one: her obvious intelligence, the downcast eyes and folded hands which managed to convey alertness and repose at the same time.
    Becker signaled for Kurt to