Alan Furst - Red Gold

It went on for a few minutes. Then he heard them coming back down the stairs. They threw the door open and slammed it shut. A car started up in the street, and drove away. Casson could hear it for a long time, the driver shifting up through the gears as the sound of the engine faded into the distance.

The woman behind the bar took a deep breath. “That will be two francs, monsieur,” she said.

Monsieur Levaux arrived at his office on the Champs-Elysees punctually at ten on Monday morning. In his perfect suit and perfect shoes, with his perfect shave, he was the local god. On the way to his office he accepted obeisance-“Bonjour, Monsieur Levaux,” “ Bonjour, Monsieur Levaux”-with profound disdain. A cold, polite face, it gave nothing away. You are not in favor. Neither are you. Phones rang, typewriters clattered. At the end of the room, his office. He went in and closed the door. His secretary gave him a few minutes, then knocked discreetly and entered. Levaux told her what he wanted, and away she went.

Life had not always been so easy. His father had been a railroad clerk, he had not shone in school, but he had worked hard, very hard, over the years, and, in time, the Agence Levaux was a place where people went when they needed to travel. By train or ship, to a commercial hotel or a resort, the agency was pleased to suggest the appropriate route, to make the reservation, write the ticket, collect the money. It was not the grandest agency in Paris, but it was not the smallest either. It made money, year in and year out. It made Monsieur Levaux a rich man.

He lived well, belonged to a club, lived in a fine apartment. But this was Paris, where money mattered but wasn’t everything. It didn’t, for instance, buy membership in the upper classes. It was pleasant to be rich, he thought, and it would just have to be sufficient. To rise any further-one had to be a realist about such things-was unlikely.

Or so he’d thought. Then, one Tuesday afternoon, a telephone call. A competitor, a man who owned many more offices than he ever would. They’d known each other for years, a distant relationship, a favor this way, a favor that way, one was flattered to be asked. But this call was different-a dinner party, in the 16th Arrondissement, could Monsieur and Madame Levaux possibly attend? Or was it, perhaps, inconvenient?

Oh no, they would certainly attend. Chez Levaux, ecstasy. Madame in a flurry, off to the shops. For monsieur, a new suit. They arrived at 8:30 precisely, with damp palms and flushed faces. They talked, they ate, they drank, they were as charming as they knew how to be. And, in the middle of the evening, one of the guests, a grand personnage of the Sorbonne-asked of him a small favor. Would it be possible…? Oh yes. He’d been considering it himself, in fact. He had? The personnage was pleased, said thank you and meant it.

A knock at the office door. The woman he’d summoned was shown in, he directed her to sit down. She was very nervous, he thought. Was he such a fearsome presence? Well, perhaps he overdid it, but far better to err on the side of authority.

Not unattractive. He’d suspected from the beginning a romantic entanglement lay at the heart of this business, but that didn’t matter. Dark, he thought, dark eyes, a generous mouth, seductive. He smiled, she returned the smile. Calm yourself, he thought, my dear-he consulted the file-my dear Helene.

He made a show of what he was going to do. Opened her dossier, paged through it, remarked on her years of service. “What I need,” he said, “is someone like yourself, who knows the agency, who knows how we do business, and has a good feel for the Levaux clientele.” Someone, above all, dependable. Well, how did she feel about that. Good? Bon. What he was offering was a job as the assistant office manager, in the Lisbon office. Quite a way from Paris, it was true, but an advancement in salary, and position. Would she consider it? Yes, she would.

On an April morning, Monsieur Marin settled his account at the Hotel du Commerce and moved to the Hotel Moncey, on the square of the same name near Notre Dame de Lorette. No special reason, he thought, it was simply time to go. Too long in one place, too many nods from the other fugitives in the endless hallways.

He had received, the last week in March, two unsigned postcards. The first sent from Vera Cruz. “I’m living now,” it began, “at the Hotel Alcala.” There was probably no such hotel-the name from the title of a book by Alexander Kovar-but the message was clear. “I’m with old friends,” it continued, “and I am in good health.” The second card, with a photograph of a Moorish garden, came from Lisbon. “I will never forget you,” it said.

Monsieur Marin spent the day settling in to his new quartier. He had one meeting-with a man who’d worked before the war as a surveyor around Caen-then he stopped at a bookstore, and picked up an envelope that held the production schedule of an aluminum refinery in the south.

He woke early the next morning and opened the window, watching the night fade from the Paris sky. The rain had stopped, a few black puddles in the cobbled square, and the air smelled like spring. He heard someone in the corridor, then a light knock at the door.

“Yes?” he said.