The World at Night

by Alan Furst

  The phone.

  Now what?

  Maybe he shouldn’t answer. No, it might be Altmann, some change of plans, or even, gift from heaven, dinner canceled. “Hello?”

  “Monsieur Casson?”

  “Yes?”

  “Maître Versol here.”

  What? Who? Oh Jesus! The lawyer for the LeBeau company!

  Versol cleared his throat, then continued. “I thought I would telephone to see if any progress has been made on locating our missing inventory. You will recall, monsieur, some four hundred beards, fashioned from human hair and of a superior quality, provided for your use in the film Samson and Delilah.”

  “Yes, Maître Versol, I do remember.”

  “We feel we have been very patient, monsieur.”

  “Yes,” Casson said. “That is true.”

  He let Versol go on for a time, as he always did, until the lawyer felt honor had been satisfied and he could hang up.

  Casson looked at his watch again. Almost five. He lifted the top from a fancy yellow box, unfolded the tissue paper, studied the tie he’d bought on the boulevard earlier that day. Navy blue with a beige stripe, very austere and conservative. Just the thing, he hoped, for the “important people” who had inspired that strange little note in Altmann’s voice. Probably it wouldn’t matter at all, it would simply mean he had done the best he could.

  On the way home, between the La Muette Métro and the rue Chardin, he stopped at the busy café where they saw him every morning. He leaned on the copper-covered bar and drank a coffee. “I may get a postcard here,” he confided to the proprietor. “It’s from somebody—you understand. I’d rather my wife didn’t see it.”

  The proprietor smiled, rubbing a glass with a bar towel. “I understand, monsieur. You may depend on me.”

  8:40 P.M.

  The Brasserie Heininger, throbbing with Parisian life on a Friday night. Once past the blackout curtains: polished wood, golden light, waiters in fancy whiskers and green aprons. Very fin-de-siècle, Casson thought. Fin-de-something, anyhow.

  Papa Heininger, the fabled proprietor, greeted him at the door, then passed him along to the mâitre d’. The man said good evening with a certain subtle approval, more to do with what he wasn’t than what he was—he wasn’t Romanian, wasn’t wearing a bright-blue suit, wasn’t a coal merchant or a black-market dealer or a pimp.

  “Monsieur Altmann’s table, please.”

  A polite nod. A German, true, but a German executive. Not so bad, for that spring. Party of four, all men, thus ashes on the tablecloth but at least a vigorous attack on the wine list. “That will be table fourteen, monsieur. This way, please.”

  Not the best table but certainly the most requested: a small hole in the mirror where an assassin had fired a submachine gun the night the Bulgarian headwaiter was murdered in the ladies’ WC. The table where an aristocratic Englishwoman had once recruited Russian spies. The table where, only a few nights earlier, the companion of a German naval officer had been shooting peas at other diners, using a rolled-up carte des vins as a blowpipe.

  The three men at the table rose, Altmann made the introductions. Clearly they’d been there for a while, most of the way through a bottle of champagne. Herr Schepper—something like that—gestured to the waiter for another to be brought. He had fine white hair and a fine face, a pink shave and shining eyes. One of a class of men, Casson thought, who are given money all their lives because people don’t really know what else to do with them. This one was, if Casson understood Altmann correctly, a very senior something at UFA, the Continental Film parent company in Berlin.

  The other man waited his turn, then smiled as he was introduced. They shook hands, shared a brief reniflement—the term came from the world of dogs, where it meant a mutual sniff on first meeting—then settled back down at the table. Herr Franz Millau. Something in the way Altmann articulated the name enabled Casson to hear it perfectly.

  He was—nobody exactly said. Perhaps he was “our friend” or “my associate” or one of those. Not a particularly impressive exterior. High domed forehead; sandy hair. An old thirty-five or a young forty-five. Eyeglasses in thin silver frames, lawyer eyeglasses, worn in a way that suggested he only took them off before he went to sleep. And a small, predatory mouth, prominent against a fair complexion that made his lips seem brightly colored. He was not unpleasant in any way Casson could put a name to, so, what was wrong with him? Perhaps, Casson thought, it was a certain gap, between an unremarkable presence, and, just below, a glittering and pungent arrogance that radiated from him like the noonday sun. Herr Millau was powerful, and believed it was in the natural order of things that he should be.

  Herr Schepper did not speak French. That kept them busy, with Altmann as translator, discovering that he loved Paris, had attended the opera, was fond of Monet, liked pâté de foie gras. A fresh bottle of Veuve Clicquot arrived, and, a moment later, an astonishing seafood platter. Everyone said ah. A masterpiece on a huge silver tray: every kind of clam and oyster, cockle and mussel, whelk and crayfish—Judgment Day on the ocean floor. “Bon appétit!” the waiter cried out.

  One small complication.

  Altmann and Schepper had to go on to a certain club in a distant arrondissement, where they were to have a late supper with a banker. Schepper said something in German. “He says,” Altmann translated, “ ‘you must take good care of the people with the money.’ ” Schepper nodded to help make the point.

  “That’s certainly true,” Casson said.

  “Well then,” Millau said, “you two should be going. Perhaps Monsieur Casson will be kind enough to keep me company while I eat my supper.”

  Merde. But everybody else seemed to agree that this was the perfect solution, and Casson was effectively trapped. A glass of champagne, a few creatures from the sea, some additional travelogue from Herr Schepper, then everybody stood up to shake hands and begin the complicated business of departure.

  At which moment, from the corner of his eye, Casson spotted Bruno. A party of six or seven swept past like ships in the night, Casson had only a blurred impression. Some German uniforms, a cloud of perfume, a woman laughing at something that wasn’t funny, and, in the middle of it—Bruno in a silk tie and blinding white shirt, a young woman— blonde, green-eyed—on his arm. Their eyes met, Bruno winked. Good to see you getting about with the right people, at last—glad you’ve seen the light. Then they went around the corner of a wall of banquettes and disappeared.

  Altmann and Schepper left.

  “Friend of yours?” Millau said.

  “Acquaintance.”

  “Some more champagne?”

  “Thank you. How do you come to speak French like that, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “No, I don’t mind. As a youngster I lived in Alsace—you know, un, deux, trois, vier, fünf.”

  Casson laughed politely.

  “That’s the way to learn a language, as a child,” Millau said.

  “That’s what they say.”

  “What about you, Sprechen Sie Deutsch?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Maybe some English, then?”

  “A little. I can get along in a commercial situation if everybody slows down.”

  Millau took a heavy black cigar from his pocket, stripped off the band and the cellophane. “Perhaps you’d care to join me.”

  “No, thank you.”

  Millau took his time lighting up, made the match flame jump up and down, at last blew out a stream of smoke, strong, but not unpleasant. He shook his head. “I like these things too much.”

  Casson lit a Gauloise.

  Millau leaned on the table, spoke in a confidential tone. “Let me begin by telling you that I’m an intelligence officer,” he said. “Reasonably senior, here in Paris.”

  “I see,” Casson said.

  “Yes. I work for the Sicherheitsdienst, the SD, in the counterespionage office up on the avenue Foch. We started out as the SS foreign service, and in a sense we st
ill are that, though success has brought us some broader responsibility.”

  Millau paused, Casson indicated he understood what had been said.

  “We’ve been getting to know you for a few months, Monsieur Casson, keeping an eye on you, and so forth, to see who we were dealing with.”

  Casson laughed nervously.

  “Ach, the way people are! I assure you, we can’t be surprised or offended by all these little sins, the same thing, over and over. We’re like priests, or doctors.”

  He stopped for a moment to inhale on the cigar, making the tip glow red, to see if it was still lit. “We got on to you down in Spain—the British were interested in you, and that was of interest to us. We were . . . nearby, when you met with a woman who calls herself Marie-Noëlle, Lady Marensohn, a representative of the British Secret Intelligence Service who we believe attempted to recruit you for clandestine operations. She is, by the way, residing with us at the moment.”

  Casson felt the blood leave his face. Millau waited to see if he might want to comment, but he said nothing.

  “Our view, Monsieur Casson, is that you did not accept recruitment.”

  Casson waited a beat but there was nowhere he could hide. “No,” he said, “I didn’t.”

  Millau nodded, confirming a position held in some earlier discussion. “And why not?”

  There wasn’t any time to think. “I don’t know.”

  “No?”

  Casson shrugged. “I’m French—not British, not German. I simply want to live my life, and be left in peace.”

  From Millau’s reaction Casson could tell he’d given the right answer. “And who would blame you for that, eh?” Millau said with feeling. “What got us into this situation in the first place was all these people meddling in politics. All we ever wanted in Germany was to be left alone, to get on with our lives. But, sadly, that was not to be, and you see what happened next. And, more to come.”

  Casson’s expression was sympathetic. He realized that Millau possessed a very dangerous quality: he was likeable.

  “We have no business fighting with England, I’ll tell you that,” Millau said. “Every week—I’m sure I’m not saying something you find surprising—there’s some kind of initiative; diplomatic, private, what have you. At the Vatican or in Stockholm. It’s just a matter of time and we’ll settle things between us. Our real business is in the east, with the Bolsheviks, and so is Britain’s business, and we’re just sorry that certain individuals in London are doing everything they can to keep us apart.”

  “Hmm,” Casson said.

  “So, that’s where you come in. My section, that is, AMT IV, is particularly concerned with terrorist operations, sabotage, bombing, assassination. We fear that elements within the British government plan to initiate such acts in France, a carefully organized campaign—and if a number of people die it is of no particular concern to them, they tend to be very liberal with French life.”

  Millau made sure this had sunk in, then he said, “This isn’t a fantasy. We know it’s going to happen, and we believe they will contact you again. This time, we want you to accept. Do what they ask of you. And let us know about it.”

  The brasserie was noisy, people talking and laughing, somebody was singing. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the aroma of grilled beef. Casson took his time, stubbing out the Gauloise in an ashtray. “Well,” he said.

  “How about it?”

  “Well, I don’t think they’ll actually approach me again,” Casson said. If Marie-Noëlle talked to them, he realized, he was finished. Would she? Considering what they did to people, would she? “I made it clear to them it wasn’t something I was going to do.”

  “Yes,” Millau said softly, meaning that he understood. “But I’ll tell you what.” He smiled, conspiratorial and knowing. “I’ll bet you anything you care to name that they come back to you.”

  3:20 A.M.

  The music on his radio faded in and out—if he held the aerial he could hear it. Adagio for Strings, Samuel Barber. Coming in from far away. Outside it rained on and off, distant thunder muttering up in Normandy somewhere. The worst of the storm had come through earlier— on the way home from the Brasserie Heininger he’d had to take shelter in the Métro to avoid getting soaked, standing next to a woman in a sweater and skirt. “Just made it,” he’d said as the rain poured down.

  “A little luck anyhow,” she’d agreed. “I have to go see somebody about a job tomorrow and this is what I have to wear.”

  Oh, what kind of job—but he didn’t.

  They stood quietly, side by side, then the rain stopped and she left, swinging her hips as she climbed the staircase just so he would know what he’d missed. He knew. He lay on top of the covers in the darkness and listened to the violin. It would have been nice to have her with him; big, pale body rising and falling. But Citrine, I didn’t.

  Good times they’d had in the Hotel du Parc. He’d been leaning against a wall, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. She told him he looked like a place Pigalle tough guy and he’d given her back the classic line, “Tiens, montrez-moi ton cul.” Show me your ass. In lycée, they used to wonder if M. Lepic, the Latin teacher, said that to Mme. Lepic on Saturday night.

  Casson peered at his watch on the table beside the bed. A few minutes after three. What if he went out somewhere and called the hotel in Lyons—let it ring and ring until an infuriated manager answered. This is the police. I want to speak with the woman in Room 28. Now!

  Sirens. Air-raid sirens. Now what? Antiaircraft fire—to the north of the city, he thought. Like a drum, in deliberate time. Then he heard airplanes. He swung his legs off the bed, made certain the apartment was dark, went out on the terrace.

  Searchlights, north of him, across the river. The AA guns working away, four or five beats to the measure, little yellow lights climbing to heaven. And, then, planes overhead, a lot of them, flying low, the drone hammering off the walls in the narrow rue Chardin. Across the street and down a little way, a couple in nightshirts out on their balcony, the woman with a fur stole thrown around her shoulders, gazing up at the sky. Then he saw others, the whole neighborhood was out.

  To the north, bombs, close enough to hear the articulated explosions. Orange light stuttered against the sky—he could see clearly the dark undersides of rain clouds, like frozen smoke, lit by fires. The British are at work, he thought. Among the factories on the outskirts of the city. When the bombing faded to a rumble, fire sirens joined the air-raid sirens. Then the all-clear sounded, and the fire engines were joined by ambulances.

  Casson got tired of standing on the terrace, sat against the wall just inside his living room. First edge of false dawn in the spring, the sky not so dark as it was, a few birds singing on the rooftops. The sirens had stopped, now there remained only a certain smell on the morning air. The smell of burning. He was falling asleep. Now that it was dawn, he could sleep, since whatever might come in the night would have to wait another day.

  Then, Monday morning, when he got to the office at ten, Mireille had a message for him. “A woman telephoned, a Madame Detweiler.”

  “Who?”

  “The secretary of an officer called Guske. From the rue des Saussaies.”

  “And?”

  “She said to tell you that your Ausweis to go to the Vichy zone is under consideration, it doesn’t look like there’s going to be a problem, and they will have a determination for you by May fifteenth. If you have any questions, you are encouraged to call Obersturmbannführer Guske.”

  “Thank you, Mireille,” he said, and went into his office.

  Was that good news, he wondered, or bad? After a moment he realized it wasn’t good or bad, it wasn’t anything. It was simply their way of talking to him. It was simply their way of telling him that they owned him.

  THE SECRET AGENT

  Casson stood on the balcony, just after midnight, and stared out over the jagged line of rooftops. The city was ghostly in blue lamplight, and very quiet. He
could hear distant footsteps, and night birds singing in the parks. The preparation of an escape, he thought, whatever else it did, showed you your life from an angle of profound reality. Where to go. How to get there. Friends and money must be counted up, but then, which friends—who will really help? How much money? And, if you can’t get that, how much? And then, most of all, when? Because these doors, once you went through them, closed behind you.

  There’s no question when, he told himself, the time is now. If it isn’t already too late.

  A few things had to be settled before he left. He started Tuesday morning, getting in touch with Fischfang. This lately was not easy— messages left with shopkeepers, calls returned from public telephones—but by the end of the week they met at a vacant apartment out in the 19th, that looked out on the railyards.

  The apartment was for rent, the landlord’s agent a plump little gentleman wearing an alpine hat with a brush. “Look around all you like, boys,” he said as he opened the door. “And as to the rent, they say I’m a reasonable man.” He winked, then trotted off down the staircase.

  Fischfang was tense, shadows like bruises beneath his eyes, but very calm. Different. It was, Casson thought, the revolver. No longer kept in a drawer, perhaps worn under the arm, or in the belt—it had a certain logic of its own and changed the person who carried it.

  And Fischfang hadn’t come alone, he had a friend—a helper or a bodyguard, something like that. Not French, from somewhere east of the Oder, somewhere out in Comintern land. Ivanic, he called himself. In his twenties, he was dark-eyed and pale, with two days’ growth of beard, wore a cap tilted down over sleepy eyes. He waited in the kitchen while Casson and Fischfang talked, hands clasped behind his head as he sat against a wall.

  Casson gave Fischfang a lot of money, all he could. But, he thought, maybe it didn’t matter any more. Now that it was time to meet in vacant apartments, now that Ivanic had showed up, maybe the days of worrying about something as simple as money were over. Fischfang put the packet of francs away, reached inside his jacket, handed Casson a school notebook with a soft cover.