Red Gold by Alan Furst

held, barely, just below a full-blooded scream, thundered through Casson’s wall.
    “No, wait, now look, we never said . . .” The whine of the falsely accused.
    “I hate you.”
    “Now look . . .” He lowered his voice as he told her where to look.
    Casson had fallen asleep, face down on Remarque. He looked at his watch, 2:20 in the afternoon.
    The middle of the day, offices closed for lunch, a busy time at le Benoit.
    Degrave took him to dinner, brought along his mistress, Laurette, and her friend, Hélène. Laurette blonde and soft, Hélène the prettier one, dark, with a lot of mascara, glossy black hair cut stylishly—expensively—short, wearing bijoux fantasie, gold-painted wooden bracelets, that clacked as she ate. Fortyish, Casson thought. She was tense at first, then talkative and bright. Casson liked her. While Degrave and Laurette were busy with each other, he told her how he’d once been hounded by lawyers when his production company had misplaced four hundred false beards meant for a musical version of Samson and Delilah. She hooted, covered her mouth, then put a hand on his arm and said, “Forgive me, I haven’t done that for a long time.”
    Generous of Degrave to take them out, Casson thought. A black-market restaurant, one the Germans hadn’t yet discovered. Roast chicken: months since Casson had tasted anything like that. He wanted to tear it apart and eat it with his fingers, maybe rolling around with it under the table. And a ’27 Meursault. From beneath the table, excited growling and snarling, then silence, then a hand appears, holding an empty glass.
    “Je vous remercie,” Casson said, the nicest way to say thank you. Degrave shrugged and smiled. “Why not,” he said.
    When the chicken bones were taken away, the owner came to the table. “Mes enfants,” she said.
    They looked up expectantly.
    “I can make an egg custard for you.”
    “Yes, of course,” Degrave said.
    “Twenty minutes.”
    “All right.”
    “Are you going back tonight?” Hélène said to Degrave.
    “I’m staying over,” he said. “If I can get a train reservation for Friday.”
    “He can,” Laurette said. She had moved her chair so she could be close to him. “If he likes.”
    Degrave’s smile was tart. “I can do anything.” He rested a hand on Laurette’s shoulder and kissed her on the forehead.
    “Salaud,” she said.
    Degrave and Laurette went off in a bicycle taxi, Casson and Hélène stood in the drizzle. “Can I take you home?” Casson said.
    She hesitated.
    “See you to the door, then.”
    “Could we go to your room?”
    Tiens. “Of course.”
    The hotel was not far from the restaurant, so they walked. She lived, she explained, in a maid’s room in an apartment owned by an old woman, a family friend. “I am an Alsatian Jew,” she said, “from Strasbourg. Ten years ago I moved to Paris and rented a small apartment. Then, a few weeks after the Germans came, the landlord told me I had to find someplace else—his sister wanted the apartment. I don’t think he has a sister, but at least he was polite about it. I went to see my mother’s old friend, a widow for many years. She was lonely, she said, would I come and stay with her?
    “For a few months, everything went well. This woman—who is not Jewish, by the way—had been a teacher in a lycée. We talked about books and music, we were good company for each other. But then, she changed. She was ill in the winter of ’41, and she became obsessed with the Germans. She made it clear that she’d like me to leave. The problem is, when they said Jews had to register, I didn’t—something told me not to. Now I can’t get a change of residence permit from the préfecture—if she throws me out I have nowhere to go. So, I stay. I’m very quiet. I don’t cause trouble. She has made a point of telling me not to bring strangers there. She’s afraid of being robbed, or murdered, I don’t know exactly what.”
    “Why not move to a