Alan Furst - Mission to Paris

Out at Joinville that morning, Stahl asked Avila when they were going to Hungary. ‘A few days from now,’ Avila said. ‘Paramount has rented the castle, and we can stay in the rooms there, most of us anyhow. There’s a hotel in the town for everyone else. Wait till you see it, Fredric, the location is perfect.’ So much for Stahl’s faint hope that the trip might be cancelled. He worked with particular concentration that day, making a point to himself: he wasn’t going to allow voices on a telephone or someone waving from a window to distract him from doing his best. He did think about it, between takes, but finally realized this led nowhere and turned his mind to other things.

By four o’clock Stahl was back at the hotel, where a square parcel in brown paper awaited him at the desk. Holding it in his hands — it hardly weighed anything — his defensive instincts surged: another one of their tricks? But the return address on the package said, B. Mehlman, The William Morris Agency and Stahl relaxed — his agent had sent him a Christmas present. In the room, he tore off the brown wrapping, which revealed fancy gift paper, silver stars on a blue background, tied with a red ribbon. Given the size of the box, Stahl suspected sweaters. Not like Buzzy to do this, he’d never done it before, perhaps it heralded good news about his career. The card would tell the story — where was it? No doubt in the box. And so it was. A small sealed envelope lay on crumpled white paper, in the middle of what he realized — after a few seconds of blank incomprehension — was a garrotte. Sickened by the look of the thing, he held it up and examined it: some kind of very strong cord, like a bowstring, that had a knot in the middle and two wooden handles. With some difficulty, his hands not their usual selves, he tore open the envelope and read the card, which said, in German, ‘Merry Christmas’.

He went out a few minutes later and eventually came upon an alley where, by the open back door of a restaurant, he found a garbage can and threw the box on top of a mound of potato peelings. The card he kept.

21 December.

Renate had to work late so Stahl, in for the evening, had a brandy and started a new Van Dine murder mystery. He’d thought about going to a movie — the Marx Brothers’ Room Service was playing nearby — but preferred to stay home and rest. He wasn’t precisely afraid, he just didn’t want to be out in the street. Some combination of Philo Vance and brandy had him dozing by 10.20, when the telephone rang. He went over to the desk and watched it for a ring or two, then thought what the hell and picked it up. And was relieved when a voice on the other end said, ‘Hello, Fredric, it’s Kiki,’ but then, a moment later, not so relieved. This was not a late-evening call from a former lover — there was real urgency in her voice as she said, ‘Fredric, there’s something I must tell you, it has nothing to do with, with you and me, it’s something… very different. And not for the telephone. Can you meet me at a cafe? It’s not far from your hotel, a little place on the rue de la Tremoille. Please say yes.’ Whatever motive lay behind the call he did not know, but it wasn’t seduction. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Are you at this cafe?’

‘I can be there in twenty minutes.’

Stahl paced the room for a time, then threw a trench coat on and left the hotel.

The rue de la Tremoille was lined with imperious apartment houses built, lavishly, in the nineteenth century — here there were rich people. But it was after ten at night and the street was dark and silent, a condition that the inhabitants, inside their fortresses, no doubt found restful and much to their taste. Not so Stahl. Wilkinson’s cautionary words, about being aware of where you were, echoed in his memory. Not a soul to be seen, not a light visible in the draped windows. When a car’s headlights turned a corner and came up behind him, he stepped into a doorway. Slowly, as though the driver were searching for something, the heavy car rumbled past, its taillights glowed red for a moment, then it went on its way.

Minutes later, Stahl found the cafe, an old-fashioned oasis in the desert of a fashionable neighborhood. Inside it was all amber walls and a haze of Gauloises smoke, and crowded with the usual cast of characters: old women with their dogs, men in workers’ caps at the bar, lovers without a place to go. From a far corner, Kiki waved to him and Stahl wound his way past the close-set tables, and they kissed hello. Kiki, despite the cloud of expensive perfume, seemed to be playing a chaste version of herself; the seductress make-up was gone, leaving her fresh-faced and younger, and she wore a sweater of very soft wool in a colour that reminded Stahl of mocha cream. Inside the shawl collar of the sweater, a silk scarf decorated with gold anchors replaced her pearl necklace. ‘Thank you for coming,’ she said, meaning it. ‘You sounded like you were half-asleep.’

‘I was,’ Stahl said.

‘I should’ve called earlier,’ Kiki said, ‘but I couldn’t make up my mind, and I was afraid you’d just hang up on me.’

‘That’s not like you, Kiki.’

‘No, I suppose it isn’t, but you’ll see why. Are you going to order something?’

‘I don’t really want coffee, it will keep me awake. Anyhow, I’m getting more curious by the moment, so…’

Kiki took a breath, then said, ‘I’m here as a messenger, Fredric. And the message comes from the Baroness von Reschke. She knew you wouldn’t agree to see her, and she regrets that, though she does understand. But I must tell you this: when she told me what she wanted me to say to you she was, how to put it, intense, serious, and not her usual self — you know what she’s like.’

‘I do know,’ Stahl said. ‘All charm and smiles, the baroness.’

‘Not when I saw her. She wanted to make sure, absolutely sure, that you received what she called “a final warning”. According to her, certain people, her words, no explanation, certain people require your cooperation, and it would be unwise not to help them. What she said was, “please make him understand that he won’t be warned again.” Does that make any sense to you?’

‘It does.’

‘Who are these people, to threaten you?’

‘Being in the movies, Kiki, doesn’t shield you from what goes on in the real world. And the people she’s talking about are very much from the real world, where politics is a game with no rules, and they’re determined to make me help them.’

‘Do you know who they are?’

‘Well, they’re friends of the baroness, and sure of her to the point that they’ve used her, and thus you, to send their message.’

She stared at him. ‘What if you don’t do what they want? Are you in danger?’

‘Not really. You shouldn’t worry about it, and I’ll only be in Paris for a few more weeks.’

‘I care for you, Fredric, being with you meant a lot to me. I don’t want you to be — hurt.’

‘Likely that won’t happen, though it’s hard to predict.’

‘What shall I tell her? She said, “I must have an answer,” and she meant it. Not like her at all, not the baroness I know. Suddenly, right there in her parlour, she was a different woman. Cold, and almost, well, cruel.’

‘The answer is that you gave me the message. I heard what she wanted me to hear.’

‘Nothing else?’

‘No, nothing else.’

‘Fredric’ — she reached across the table and took his hand in hers — ‘is there anything I can do to help you?’

He shook his head. ‘Leave it alone, Kiki. Forget this happened. There is no point in your being involved, in fact there’s every reason you shouldn’t be.’

She let go of his hand and sat back. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘But the offer is still there, if you change your mind.’