by Alan Furst
“It is my pleasure, Marquesa.” When she did not answer, he said, “Now, how may I help you?”
In that hypnotic voice, she told him her story. Her dear husband, the marques, had loaned a friend a great deal of money. There was no contract, they were old friends, only a handshake. “It was a debt of honor,” she said. Was there, perhaps, a letter? The marques rarely wrote letters. Had she been present during a telephone call? “No, Monsieur Ferrar, my husband saw to his affairs in the privacy of his office.” And did he own a business? “He did not care for commerce, monsieur, his estates were overseen by a manager.”
This went on for a time, her claim weaker with every question and answer—here was a theft with no witnesses other than the marques, and he had told her of the loan in the last hours of his life. The money, Ferrar thought, was probably gone for good. Still, he would do his best, inspired by … by her. He could not stop looking at her: a model of composure, her lips together when she was done speaking, her face as still as ice. Well, prim and proper she might be, but beneath his desk Ferrar was highly aroused. Damn! What had she done to him? A powerful, erotic energy flowed from her like electric current.
“Marquesa, I fear there is considerable work to be done if we are to retrieve your husband’s money.”
“I am no stranger to effort, monsieur.”
“Forgive me, but I must ask, does your present financial situation permit you to live as you have in the past?”
“For the time being, it does. But the marques’s wealth was traditional, that is to say, the ownership of land.”
Ferrar had seen this before, wealth that was difficult to turn into money, so that the individual was said to be living in reduced circumstances. “And when you spoke with your husband’s friend, on the subject of the debt, what was his response?”
“He was rather cruel, if I may put it that way. For he claimed that the marques, in his decline, was not in touch with reality.”
“I dislike asking this, Marquesa, but is there any chance that this was in fact the case?”
“No, monsieur, his mind was clear until the end. He was simply a generous man, often kind to his friends and family.”
Ferrar took a few sheets of Coudert stationery from his drawer and placed them flat on his desk, then, with fountain pen in hand, began to gather details. How much money? The money was in Belgian francs, the equivalent of a hundred and thirty thousand American dollars. Paid—he hoped!—by check? No, the marques had a safe in his office and kept large amounts of cash. On and on, worse and worse. And when Ferrar asked about the marques’s estates, the answer had to be, as Ferrar anticipated, “They are in Spain, monsieur.”
When Ferrar had all the information he needed, at least to begin with, he said, “Can you tell me something of yourself?”
Here she paused, then said, “My father’s family was of mixed French and Spanish blood—I am named Maria Cristina for my father’s mother, whose origins were in the Navarre, though she used to say that many generations ago they lived in Portugal. My father’s family came from the Norman regions west of Paris, and my maiden name was Palestrin. My mother’s people came from Lombardy, northern Italy, and had the title of cavaliere, small nobility, something like a baronet. My mother was born in Padua, and in many ways I favor her—I have, particularly, her eyes.” Using the tips of her gloved fingers, she raised her veil, said, “Now you can see them,” then lowered it.
He saw. The marquesa’s eyes, which had been simply dark when seen through the webby strands of her veil, were prominent, luminous, and colored a rich, incredibly warm shade of chestnut brown. The combination, of brown eyes and golden hair, had a powerful effect on Ferrar, but a small thing compared to the gesture itself, the raising of the veil. This was seductive, he thought, but, meant to be so? The marquesa was all innocence, her expression unchanged, she did not smile. Still …
“I was educated at a convent school in Angers,” she continued, “then at a private academy in Geneva. At the age of twenty-five I married the marques, we met at a spa in Baden-Baden, where young women are often taken by their parents in hope of finding a suitable match. My husband was twenty-two years older than I, but that difference did not affect us, except perhaps in our decision not to have children. We lived, for the fifteen years of our marriage, mostly in hotels. In Lugano, at Saint Moritz in the winter, Biarritz in the summer, sometimes in Carlsbad—my husband always believed himself prone to ailments and often took treatments at spas. We lived, monsieur, the life of the nineteenth-century European aristocracy, coming home to Brussels so that the marques could spend some time at his office, and visiting Madrid when he had to attend to family matters. As for the estates, he never visited them, preferring not to see the condition of the people who worked there. Though they, I should add, now own them.” After a moment of reflection, she said, “It was in fact a quiet life and we were in many ways a happy and well-suited couple.”
When she went no further, Ferrar said, “And where are you staying in Paris, if I may ask.”
“I was for a time at the Bristol, but have recently taken rooms at a small hotel in the Seventh Arrondissement called the Windsor. Do you know it?”
“I have heard of it,” Ferrar said. More a residence than a hotel, the Windsor was expensive, private, and discreet, known to be a preference of foreign artists from wealthy families, eccentric older women with small dogs, and disgraced aristocracy. Ferrar sensed that the marquesa had told him all she wanted him to know, so said, “You have been very generous with your time, Marquesa, I shall be in touch with you once we determine how to proceed.”
She rose effortlessly to her feet, and Ferrar also stood. “Monsieur Ferrar,” she said, “thank you for your gracious interest,” then extended her hand, palm down. Ferrar held the hand lightly, and even though he kissed it with the merest brush of his lips, he could feel the warmth of her skin through the thin leather of her glove.
Ferrar went to his office window and looked out on the Champs-Elysées. It was dusk, and it was raining, so that the light of the streetlamps was reflected on the wet pavement. A few minutes later, a driver in a suit emerged from a large automobile, closed umbrella in hand. When he reappeared, the umbrella was up and held above the marquesa’s head as the two walked to the car. The driver held the door, the marquesa slid inside, and that was the last he saw of her. But, he thought, he would see her again.
•
Early Friday morning, three-thirty, the phone rang in Ferrar’s apartment. He woke with heart pounding, rolled out of bed, and, with blanket over his shoulders—he did not wear pajamas—stumbled into his office. “Yes? Who is it?”
“It’s Max, I’m calling from Karviná, the railway border station between Czechoslovakia and Poland. They’re giving me trouble here. They’ve told me our freight cars can’t go directly to Danzig, they have to wait in Warsaw for a day, then they’ll be added to another train that will be made up in the Praga freight yards. The delay isn’t serious, we just have to make sure that it works as they say it will. And you have to fly into Warsaw anyhow, so I’ll meet you there and we’ll check on the shipment.”
“Freight shipping, you think it’s all set, but then …”
“If I want to talk to you later will you be at your office?”
“Until about three in the afternoon, then I’m leaving for Le Bourget and taking the five o’clock LOT flight to Warsaw. I’ll be there about nine-thirty on Saturday morning.”
It was freezing in the apartment, Ferrar held the blanket together with one hand and with the other searched through his desk drawer looking for a Gitane. There were three, very stale and dry in an old packet. Ferrar lit one and said, “Have you been in Poland?”
“Yes, for a week or so.”
“How was it?”
De Lyon was careful on the telephone. “Not bad, not good … you could feel the tension. After what happened in Austria they figure that their appointment with Hitler has been moved up … It’s all over the newspapers but
they’re being tough and brave about the whole thing. As for us, our arrangements, I believe we’ll be all right. The Germans in Danzig are in the street, but so far they’re only marching. Listen, Cristián, you’re going to be met at the Warsaw airfield by a friend of mine called Nestor. Don’t be put off by the way he looks, he does … some necessary work for me and he’s good at it. He might be late but don’t worry, he’ll be there. He speaks some French … you don’t speak Polish, do you?”
“Not a word.”
“You’ll manage. You have your visa?”
“Yes, Max, I have my visa. One of the associates in my office is assigned to take care of travel documents; he knows all the consular officials at the Paris embassies.”
“Good. Then, if all goes well, I’ll see you in Warsaw on Saturday morning. Nestor will know which hotel, probably the Europejski. Oh yes, can you get a thousand dollars from your bank? If you can, bring it with you, and also the … present I gave you. Do you know what I mean?” Ferrar had to think about it, finally realized that de Lyon was talking about the Walther PPK automatic.
“I do.”
“Then I’ll see you Saturday.”
“Be careful, Max.” Ferrar hung up the telephone and returned to his bedroom. Should he try to go back to sleep? He went into the kitchen, poured himself half a glass of brandy, brought it into the bedroom, and sat on the edge of the bed. Outside, seen through a glaze of frost on the window, the Place Saint-Sulpice was lit by a single streetlamp. When he finished the cigarette and the brandy, he went over to his armoire, took the Walther from the drawer that held his socks, and put it on a table where he kept his wallet and keys, so he wouldn’t forget it when he went to work in the morning.
The LOT flight wasn’t crowded, Ferrar had two seats to himself. Across the aisle, a round woman with red cheeks was praying—lips moving, eyes closed—certain that this devilish contraption would fall from the sky. Ferrar had bought a Le Soir at the waiting-room newsstand; there was front-page news from Spain, Barcelona had been bombed by Italian pilots flying German Heinkel aircraft. The bombing, seventeen raids over two days, had been unopposed—the Republic didn’t have the fighter planes to protect the city. The Italian pilots flew just above the buildings, moving from neighborhood to neighborhood, killing one thousand three hundred residents and wounding over two thousand. According to the Le Soir correspondent, the injured lay on stretchers in the street and gave the clenched-fist salute when people stopped to see if they could help. Afterwards, from around the world, there was angry protest over the barbaric assault.
In Warsaw, at ten-twenty in the morning, Ferrar waited in the doorway of the corrugated-iron building that served as airline terminal. The wind was blowing hard from the northeast, from the Russian steppe, the cloudless sky a powerful shade of deep blue. Ferrar looked at his watch, the other passengers from the LOT flight had long ago departed so he stood alone, and feeling as though he had grit under his eyelids. Had he been abandoned? At last he was approached by a short, thin man, maybe thirty years old, hurrying toward him with hands in pockets, who said in French—at first Ferrar didn’t know what it was—“Sorry late, you are Ferrar? Yes? I am Nestor.” He grinned, eyes sparkling, mouth wide to reveal terribly crooked brown teeth, and shook Ferrar’s hand up and down. He was a strange-looking fellow, in a tan suit that sagged at the knees and a shirt of green and lavender checks buttoned at the neck. Ferrar had never seen such a shirt, perhaps, he thought, an eastern European shirt. Nestor pointed to the other end of the terminal and said, with another dreadful grin, “Come with me, sir.”
Ferrar walked the length of the building, following Nestor to a heavy Buick automobile which he knew to be the favored transportation of those with both money and experience of Polish roads. It wasn’t an old car but had been hard used, the front end was covered with dried mud, the windshield, starred with pebble hits, had a zigzag crack from top to bottom on the passenger side and bore semicircular streaks of mud above the windshield wiper.
Settling himself behind the wheel, Nestor said, “To Europejski! Hang on!” He meant it—the car sped off, big and well powered, bucking over ridges in the dirt road, throwing up great splashes of brown water as it bounced through potholes. To Nestor, a car was meant to go as fast as it could and Ferrar wondered, seriously wondered, if this was the end for him. As they sped around a curve, the back end began to slide, but Nestor stepped on the gas and the Buick straightened out of the skid. Swinging into the next curve, still speeding, they came upon a horse-drawn cart headed the other way. Ferrar stiffened, prepared for impact, then Nestor swore and threw the wheel over hard, the tires chewed up clumps of dirt from a field, the driver of the cart made an obscene gesture, and his horse whinnied with fright as the Buick flew past.
Eventually, they rolled to a stop in front of the Europejski, where the giant uniformed doorman never blinked an eye—he’d seen worse in his time—and held the door as Ferrar emerged, grateful to be in one piece. “I wait,” Nestor said. The Europejski lobby was luxurious, all plush furniture and potted palms. At the desk, Ferrar was told that Monsieur de Lyon was in Room 412, then was taken up to his own room by a bellboy, no more than thirteen years old. Ferrar called de Lyon’s room. “Hello, Cristián,” de Lyon said. Then, with a laugh in his voice, “You enjoyed the ride?”
“Merde,” Ferrar said. “Does he always drive like that?”
“Always. He hits only small things, and never animals. Nestor is good to animals, especially chickens, though I’m not sure how he does it.”
“Do we have to go someplace right away?” Ferrar said. “I’m in need of a hot bath.”
“Help yourself. You have twenty minutes for a bath, then we’re going to look at our shipment.”
Ferrar had his bath, looked longingly at the bed, then called de Lyon and they met in the lobby. “Now it’s off to the railyard,” de Lyon said. “We’ve got six freight cars all to ourselves.”
The railyards were in Praga, Warsaw’s industrial zone across the Vistula from the city. Here the Buick bounced over rough cobbled streets, past miles of factories and workshops which flavored the air with the smells of burned metal and coal smoke. At last they came to the railyards, below street level in a kind of valley enclosed by weedy hillsides, where some thirty or so tracks, steel rails glinting in the sunlight, ran off into the distance, then disappeared into a tunnel. On the street above the tracks, the yard supervisor’s office was in an ancient wooden shack. De Lyon knocked on the door, the supervisor answered. He was a weathered old man wearing a cardigan sweater and a railroad uniform cap from another time. De Lyon, speaking native, idiomatic Polish—he would later tell Ferrar what had been said—was courteous and spent a moment being amiable. The yard supervisor peered up at a blackboard and said, “You’re looking for the Karviná/Warsaw train, originating in Brno.” He squinted at the chalk writing, then said, “It’s in, come with me.”
They descended to the tracks on a rickety stairway, then walked, their shoes crunching on cinders, beside the rails as the supervisor searched for the Karviná/Warsaw freight train. At last he found it, a line of old boxcars that rode high above exposed iron wheels. From his briefcase, de Lyon produced the carbon of a waybill, and the three moved along the track as the supervisor checked each car, looking for the corresponding numbers. Forty cars later, they came to the locomotive, where a mechanic was using an oilcan to lubricate the wheel bearings.
The supervisor was puzzled, shook his head, and said, “How did we miss them? Can I have another look at the waybill?” De Lyon handed it over, the supervisor studied the numbers, then said, “This is the right train, unless the waybill is wrong.”
“Does that happen?” de Lyon said.
“It can, I suppose. Mostly it doesn’t. Let’s go back to the other end.”
They turned and walked the length of the train, the supervisor was careful, checking the numbers on every car. When they reached the last car, the supervisor took off his cap, smoothed his hair, put the ca
p back on, then reached into the pocket of his cardigan, brought out a half-smoked cigar and lit it. “Something’s not right,” he said. “Your freight has to be here. Are you sure it was Karviná/Warsaw?”
De Lyon nodded.
“Did you see it loaded?”
“I saw the boxcars, at Karviná. The railway people there checked them through to Warsaw.”
The supervisor was stumped. “Well …,” he said.
From his pocket, de Lyon took a wad of hundred-dollar bills. “We really need your …”
“Put that away,” the supervisor said.
The money disappeared. “I didn’t mean to … sometimes people …”
“Not me,” the supervisor said. “It’s my job to help you, so let me do it.”
Finally, Ferrar could stand it no longer and said to de Lyon, “What the hell is going on?”
“Our boxcars seem to have vanished.”
“Let’s go back to the office,” the supervisor said. “I have to use the telephone. What were you shipping?”
