Mission to Paris by Alan Furst Page B

back of the chair, was all smiles and affability. He was about fifty, Stahl guessed, with the thickening body of a former athlete and a heavy, boyish face. He might be cast as a guest at one of Jay Gatsby’s parties, scotch in hand, flirting with a debutante. Was he, perhaps, an Ivy League alumnus, making his way easily through a familiar world? Maybe. In the corner, a squash racquet leaned against the wall. Wilkinson indicated the chair across from his desk and said, ‘Thanks for dropping by, Mr Stahl, sorry about the short notice but this wretched business with the Czechs has kept us from our normal routine.’ He glanced at a page of handwritten notes and said, ‘Anyhow, as a resident alien of the US you’re supposed to check in with us when you arrive in Paris. Not everybody does that, of course, and we don’t really mind, but this visit will take care of it.’
    ‘Thank you,’ Stahl said.
    ‘So, yes, ah, you’ve been a resident alien for eight years. Any thought of taking US citizenship?’
    ‘I intend to. I’ve been meaning to go to the class, fill out the forms … but I’ve been in one movie, then right away another …’
    ‘You surely have, and very successfully. I’ve seen you, of course, but I never remember movie names.’ His tone was apologetic. ‘Only that I enjoyed them. And with American movies you see in Paris, it’s always someone else’s voice, speaking French, which, frankly, bothers the hell out of me. The last time I saw John Wayne, and he said, “ Maintenant regardez , Slim”, it tickled me so bad my wife poked me in the ribs.’ He grinned at the memory. ‘Anyway, what do you think of Paris, these days?’
    ‘Not the same as it was, back in the twenties, but not so different. It’s still the city you fall in love with, despite the politics.’
    ‘Pretty grim, all this hostility, no?’
    ‘It is. The French didn’t used to be so, um, concentrated on it. Before, it was more like a game, but now it’s a war.’
    Wilkinson nodded, I’m glad you agree with me . ‘I’ll tell you something, by trade I’m a lawyer in a Wall Street firm, but I worked for the Roosevelt campaigns in ’32 and ’36 and, believe me, there was plenty of rough stuff going on. But, compared to France, in the last few years, it was child’s play. And now, with war coming …’ He paused, then said, ‘I saw an announcement of your arrival in the Paris Herald and I admit I wondered, I mean, what the hell made you come here now?’
    ‘Jack Warner,’ Stahl said.
    Wilkinson laughed, a bass rumble, and his eyes lit up. ‘I should’ve figured that out,’ he said. ‘But there’s a story about Jack Warner which might explain it. A few years ago, the Warner Bros. representative in Berlin, a man named Joe Kaufmann, was beaten to death by Nazi Brown Shirts – they didn’t like it that he was a Jew – and Warner closed the Berlin office. Then he started to make anti-fascist movies, and he got letters threatening to burn his house down. The other moguls, Goldwyn and Harry Cohn and the rest, don’t want to get involved, but Jack Warner decided to fight, bless his heart.’
    ‘Well, the decision to have one of his actors do a movie in Paris came from the top, from Jack Warner, personally.’
    ‘Glad you came? Showing the flag?’
    ‘I’m not sorry. Actors are told, “always avoid politics, it’s bad for the box office”, but I found out right away you can’t.’
    ‘How so, found out?’
    ‘Two weeks ago I was caught in a street march and got hit in the face with a steel rod. That’s the worst, but it started earlier. I was invited to a cocktail party – a salon – and they carried on like crazy, peace with Germany, peace with Germany, all we want is peace.’
    From Wilkinson, a knowing smile. ‘Which hostess? There are four or five – they’re infamous.’
    ‘The Baroness von Reschke. What a terror! And there was someone else, a man called, what’s his name, he makes champagne, DeMotte?