by Alan Furst
“In a room at the Hôtel Briand.”
“She’s not someone I would buy, not as a single unit.”
“Then…?”
“She works with a partner, a writer called Paul Ricard. He was known to the English spy Teodor. We’ll buy both of them if you can find Ricard.”
Vozki wanted to argue but thought better of it. “I will try, Major,” he said.
“Then that will be all,” Geisler said.
* * *
—
Back at the Briand, Vozki went to the room where Kasia was being held, seated in a chair with her hands tied behind her. Vozki took Simon aside, described his meeting with Geisler, and said, “We will turn this into an opportunity. I’m going to telephone Ricard.”
He went down to the reception desk and found Ricard’s number in a city telephone directory.
* * *
—
When the phone rang in Ricard’s garret he was hard at work on The Investigator—a scene where Valois, the arson investigator, confronts the owner of the Roumanian factory. Annoyed at the interruption, he almost didn’t answer, then did. “Hello?”
“Monsieur Ricard?”
“Yes.”
“I am known as Vozki, I specialize in the capture of fugitives of interest to the Occupation Authority, and I am calling to tell you that we have taken your friend Kasia and are holding her for ransom. Otherwise, she goes to the Gestapo.”
Ricard had to catch his breath, then said, “Ransom. How much do you want?”
“We feel your friend is worth five thousand American dollars. Are you disposed to help her? Or shall I telephone the Gestapo?”
Kasia was no fugitive, Ricard thought, unless the Gestapo decided she was. But he wasn’t going to argue with this Vozki person. “Very well,” Ricard said. “I’ll pay the ransom, but it will take a day or so for me to collect that much money.”
“Today is the tenth of November,” Vozki said. “Shall we say the fifteenth?”
“Alright, where do I find you?”
“Stay home on the morning of the fifteenth and you’ll receive a telephone call. We’ll tell you then where to go.”
“I’ll have to see her,” Ricard said, “and make sure she’s unharmed.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Vozki said. “Just get the money and all will be well.” He hung up, then went back upstairs where Simon was waiting. “This will work,” he said, greatly pleased with himself. “We’ll collect twice and be paid for the writer as well as the Polish girl.”
“You’re a very smart fellow,” Simon told him.
“Well, that’s your good luck,” Vozki said.
“She’s a pretty girl, Kasia is, why don’t we put her on the bed and then, when I’m done, it’s your turn.”
“Leave her alone, Simon. That kind of thing can come back and hurt you.”
“I don’t see how.” Simon was clearly not convinced, and when Vozki went out to do an errand, he sat on the bed next to Kasia’s chair and put a hand on her knee. Kasia moved away and said, “Leave me alone, conard.”
“Now, now. Don’t be like that. Here we have some time together, let’s make the most of it.”
“Let’s not,” Kasia said.
He reached out, grabbed Kasia by the neck with one hand, and, with the other, began to stroke her breasts. Kasia wriggled free and swore at him. He laughed, then knelt in front of her and tried to force her knees apart. Kasia’s foot fitted nicely in the throat area below Simon’s chin, and the kick was powerful enough to send him sprawling on his backside. “Ho, a minx!” he said. “You like to fight before you do it? I know the type.” He stood, took a gravity knife from his pocket, and let the blade fall free, then turned it so it gleamed in the lamplight.
“You’ll get no ransom if you cut me up,” Kasia said, voice level. “Nobody buys damaged goods.”
Simon stared at her a moment, not sure how to get what he wanted.
“Now go find someone else to pester,” Kasia said.
Simon muttered something to himself and put the knife back in his pocket. “Your friends better come up with the money,” he said. “Or I’ll finish what I started.”
* * *
—
Ricard met with Adrian at a café. “Kasia has been kidnapped, this man called Vozki is going to sell her to the Gestapo unless I pay him five thousand dollars.”
Adrian thought for a time, then said, “Pay in person?”
“Yes. That’s what he said. The money must be paid in two days.”
“So there will come a time when you, Kasia, and five thousand dollars will be in the same place. Do I have that right?”
Ricard said he did.
Adrian sighed. “Ricard, forgive me, but has it ever occurred to you that you’re not cut out for this business?”
“Many times.”
“Where will this happen?”
“They will telephone on the morning of the fifteenth.”
“Very well, here’s what you’re going to do.”
* * *
—
On the morning of the fifteenth, Ricard was waiting by his telephone when it rang. “Yes?”
On the other end of the line, Vozki said, “Do you have the money?”
“Not yet. A friend will help me, but the meeting has to be out near his bank—he won’t carry that much money around the city, he says it’s too dangerous.”
“Where does he want to meet?”
“On the Impasse du Ruisseau.”
“Where the hell is that?”
“Out in Montreuil. His bank is on the next street.”
“No,” Vozki said firmly. “We’ll set the place and time.”
Adrian had warned Ricard, had told him he would have to gamble. Ricard said, “Then there’s nothing I can do about it.”
From Vozki, a long silence while the telephone line hissed. “Well, that’s too bad. I’ll have to contact the Gestapo. They’ll do the paying.”
“Not that much,” Ricard said.
Again, Vozki paused, but his greed for a double payment was irresistible, and he knew that Ricard’s assumption about the Gestapo was correct. “Say again the place,” he said.
“The Impasse du Ruisseau. The time is nine at night.”
“Then it’s set,” Vozki grumbled, very much displeased.
Adrian was standing next to Ricard and, as Ricard hung up, Adrian said, “Did he buy it?”
“I think so.”
* * *
—
Adrian sent a telegram to the Prestige Taxi Company in Orléans, asking Jules and Henri, the résistants who had executed the salon owner Lolotte, if they would do a job in Paris. A few hours later they responded, the answer was yes, they liked working for Adrian, he paid immediately and paid well. The two took a train up to Paris and registered at a small hotel.
It rained on the evening of the seventeenth and, without moon and stars, the city was as dark as it ever got, the blue-painted streetlamps casting no more than a dull glow on the empty streets. At eight-thirty, Adrian drove a panel truck to the entry of the Rue de la Huchette, and Ricard climbed in beside him. As the engine idled, Adrian handed Ricard a weapon, an M1935 7.65 semi-automatic pistol. “Know how to use it?” Adrian said.
“I think so. Is this the safety?”
“Yes, then pull the housing toward you to arm it. You’ve got eight rounds in there.” Adrian drove to a street near the Impasse du Ruisseau and parked the truck. Ten minutes later, Henri and Jules appeared, and Adrian introduced them to Ricard; no last names, just Jules and Henri, rain dripping off the lowered brims of their hats. All four were tense, smoked cigarette after cigarette, and glanced too often at their watches. A few minutes before nine o’clock, Jules and Henri entered the empty impasse and found doorways on either side o
f the street. At the dead end of the street was the back of a factory, where, covered by a steel grille, some large, noisy machine was at work, drumming away and loud enough that they had to raise their voices almost to a shout in order to be heard.
Precisely at nine, Ricard, carrying a paper bag that held five thousand dollars, entered the impasse and waited at the far end of the street. Minutes passed. Nothing happened. Ricard looked back at Adrian, who stood to one side of the impasse entry, as though to say, What do I do now? Adrian made a calming gesture with his hand, Wait. Just as Ricard turned back to face the street, two shadows appeared, walking cautiously toward them. When Ricard could make out faces, he saw two men he’d never seen before.
One of the men gestured with a revolver, Come toward us.
Ricard approached, Vozki and Simon watched him carefully, especially watched his hands. Vozki said, voice raised above the drumming machine, “Do you have the money?”
Ricard handed over the paper bag. Vozki peered inside, and counted to himself. When he was done, Ricard said, “Where is Kasia?”
“You’ll see her soon,” Vozki said. “Now turn around and put your hands behind your back.” Then Vozki circled behind him and tied his wrists with twine, tight enough to hurt. Then ran his hands over Ricard’s raincoat and took the 7.65 pistol.
Vozki and Simon then walked Ricard back toward the factory. When they were close to the end of the street, Ricard could make out a narrow alleyway that ran between the side of the factory and the next building, another factory. As he was led into the alley, he thought, I’m finished. They’re not coming.
But they were. Jules and Henri had screwed long silencers into the barrels of their automatics, and the shots were like sibilant whispers. Vozki let go of Ricard and sank to his knees. “You’ll never…,” he said as he died. Simon had been shot in the leg, and fallen facedown on the cobblestone, whining with pain. Jules turned him over, found Ricard’s 7.65 automatic in his pocket, untied his hands, and gave it to him. “I believe this is yours,” he said. Next he found Vozki’s pistol beneath his chest, then took the clasp knife from his pocket. He opened it and said to Ricard, “Turn away.”
Ricard heard Jules say, “Where’s the girl?” Next he heard Simon scream, “The Hôtel Briand! The Hôtel Briand!”
“Where is it?”
“On the Rue du Rocher, by the Gare Saint-Lazare.”
Jules said to Henri, “Go get the truck, we’re taking the two of them with us. I’m leaving this one alive in case he’s lying to us.” Then he said to Simon, who was moaning and holding his leg, “You’re not lying to us, are you?”
“No. That’s the hotel. The girl is in room 502.” Panic at the edge of his voice, Simon whined, “I swear, monsieur, I swear it.”
Jules then took Vozki’s shirt in his hands and tore off a strip of fabric, then raised Simon’s pant leg and tied the bandage around a bloody hole in his right leg. Adrian and Ricard loaded the wounded Simon and Vozki’s body into the panel truck, then Jules slid into the driver’s seat. “Where will you take them?” Ricard said.
“I’ll leave them just outside a hospital. The doctors will take care of Simon’s wound and they’ll send the other one to the morgue. Maybe then they will call the police, or they won’t, it doesn’t matter.”
Kasia remained a captive at the Hôtel Briand. At an apartment building across the street, Adrian and Ricard talked to the concierge, who let them into a vacant apartment on the third floor. From there, they watched the hotel. German officers were going in and out, some of them in SS uniforms. They would surely question Kasia, but they would get nothing out of her, at least not right away. “How to get her out of the building?” Ricard asked Adrian.
“Jules is still in Paris. I can call his hotel and ask him to help.”
In midafternoon, Jules showed up at the apartment. “We need your help again,” Ricard said. “They’ve got Kasia in their private hotel, there, across the street.”
Jules watched for a time, then said, “Well, there is a way, but it’s going to make the Gestapo really mad.”
“I don’t care, do what you have to do,” Ricard said.
They waited until late afternoon, a chilly, rainy November afternoon, then Jules left the apartment—they could see him from the apartment window—crossed the street, and disappeared into the alley that ran behind the back entrance to the hotel. Ten slow minutes passed, then Jules showed up, breathing hard and dusted with coal soot. “Now we wait,” he said.
A minute or two later there was a muffled bang inside the hotel, a window shattered, and then, from the hotel’s chimneys, a huge cloud of coal dust was blown over the street. It was still floating down when, in a window on the first floor of the hotel, an orange light flickered. German officers began to rush from the hotel, coughing in the sooty fog and, with bells ringing and siren wailing, a fire truck turned the corner and parked in front of the hotel. As the firemen unreeled their hoses, Kasia appeared. She’d been untied but was flanked by two Germans who held her arms. With a violent effort, she wriggled free, ran to one of the firemen, and cried out, “Save me!” As the firemen asked her what was going on, her two captors disappeared down the street.
Adrian, Jules, and Ricard had run down the stairs and out into the street, and when Kasia saw them, she ran to Ricard and embraced him. Then the three drove away in Adrian’s panel truck, finally stopping by a small park. Kasia thanked the others, then Ricard offered her a cigarette, a Balto, from a packet with a cartoon of a sultan wearing a turban. Ricard lit the cigarette, Kasia inhaled and scowled. “A terrible cigarette! What became of your Gitanes?”
“The black-market supply dried up, so everyone smokes these.”
“What happens now?” Ricard asked Adrian.
“Eventually, you and Kasia are going to have to disappear. For how long I can’t say—maybe you can hide in Paris, maybe in France or America. Right now, you need to find a safe house, my friends. And don’t tell anybody where it is.”
* * *
—
Well, they had a safe house, rented at Adrian’s direction, back in September—out in the Twelfth, a long way from nowhere by Parisian standards, overlooking the La Chapelle freight yards and the wine warehouses in Bercy. All it needed was furniture. Adrian drove the panel truck out to the flea market at the Porte de Vanves. On the way, Ricard asked about Jules: How did he come to know such clever tricks with explosives?
“Trained,” Adrian said. “They train in Scotland, two months of it, learn every sort of mayhem and violence. I would say he is in France as an agent of the Special Operations people, though he would never admit that, but he’s here to cause chaos, to blow things up, to cut telephone lines, to kill German officers.”
At the market, they bought eight well-used mattresses, thin and lumpy with use but better than sleeping on the floor. They bought pots and pans and plates, including a heavy iron pot big enough to cook a stew for ten people, they bought mugs for coffee, and worn towels with faded blue stripes. “We must have a radio,” Ricard said, found a table of radios, and turned them on and off until he found one, an old Philco in a walnut case with a curved top, that worked. They bought a small kerosene stove, then loaded everything into the panel truck and drove back toward central Paris on the Boulevard Brune.
And right into a French police roadblock.
Supervised by the wrong kind of flic. A stern fellow with gray hair and puppet lines by his mouth. He looked in the window of the panel truck, saw Adrian and Ricard and Kasia in the front seat, and smelled artist, radical, communist, bohemian, smelled the Saint-Germain-des-Prés on them. Oh, he knew who they were, alright, knew what they were, had never liked it in the past and didn’t like it now. “Pull your truck over and start unloading,” he said.
They did as they were ordered, leaving the mattresses inside. The household possessions didn’t look their best in the gray
drizzle. “What’s all this?” he said, voice hard and unforgiving.
Kasia is so good, Ricard thought. She pretended to find the flic the sort of master she liked to obey, a disapproving and severe papa. She called him Monsieur l’Agent, starting each sentence with it. She was his to command.
“We are moving to a new apartment, Monsieur l’Agent.”
“Where is that?”
“In the student district, sir, my friend and I will attend the Sorbonne in the fall.”
What a clever little submissive you are, Kasia, your dominatrix, whoever she is lately, would be proud of your theatre. Ricard could see that all the cooing and Monsieur l’Agent–ing was having its effect. “A good thing, education, but you must study hard, ma fille”—Jesus, my daughter, he calls her, Ricard thought—“and not spend your time in idle frivolity.”
“I promise to work so hard, sir,” Kasia said.
Could that be, Ricard thought, the merest edge of a smile on that sourpuss of a face?
“Best to put your things back now,” the flic said. “You don’t want them to get wet in this rain.”
The three hurriedly reloaded the panel truck and, just as Adrian shifted into first gear, the flic saluted them, touched the brim of his kepi with his index finger. “Now we go to work,” Adrian said and headed for the safe house.
* * *
—
A day later, Ricard was again “Paul Ricard the novelist.” Two weeks earlier, Julien Montrésor of Les Éditions Montrésor had scheduled a publication party for Ricard’s new book, Midnight in Trieste. The party was held in the breakfast room of a hotel and, when Ricard arrived, promptly at seven, a waiter had already set out bottles of cheap, thin champagne, and was now wandering around the crowded room with a tray of canapés—quickly gobbled up by the hungry guests.
The party was much like those which had celebrated Ricard’s previous publications, here and there he saw familiar faces—writers, editors, book reviewers—but most of the guests were invited from a list that Montrésor maintained, people who showed up, people who filled out the room. Ricard spoke briefly with Montrésor, who was complimentary but, stroking his Mephistophelian beard, kept looking over Ricard’s shoulder to see who he should talk to next. Mixed in among the crowd were those people who could be useful to a publisher. Ricard didn’t mind, Montrésor was who he was and climbed socially when he saw an opportunity, but he was a good publisher, he knew how to sell books, and royalty checks showed up in Ricard’s mail.