Free The World at Night by Alan Furst Page A

ceiling. “Trick is,” she said, “with these times, is don’t let it ruin your life.”
    “My mother used to say that.”
    “She was right.”
    They smoked. A fat little man, commercial traveler from the suitcase he was carrying, looked into the café and cleared his throat. The woman turned around. “Well hello,” she said.
    “Are you, uh . . .”
    The woman stood up. “I have to go,” she said.
    “Luck to you.”
    “Thanks. And you.”
    Monday morning, 7:00 A.M. The concierge knocked on his door. It took him a long time to unwind himself from sleep, dreams, the safety of his very own bed. He staggered to the door.
    “Welcome home, Monsieur Casson.”
    He stood, swaying slightly, his shirt pulled together in one hand, his pants held up with the other. “Madame Fitou,” he mumbled.
    She was sweating with anxiety.
    “What is it?”
    “The car, monsieur.”
    “Yes?” He rarely drove it—it mostly stayed in the little garage off the courtyard.
    The words came in a rush. “Well, of course we waited until you returned, and we worried about you so, but of course you know the authorities have made a requisition of all private automobiles, so, ah, it must be turned in. Of course there were posters, while you were away, monsieur. My husband made sure to write down the address, out in Levallois, because we thought, you’d have to be informed, you’d want to be, when you came home . . .” She ran down slowly.
    “Oh, yes, of course.”
    Now he understood. The poor woman was afraid he’d refuse, that she would be dragged into disobedience, made to suffer for his casual attitude toward authority. “I’ll take care of it this morning, madame,” he said.
    She thanked him, he could see the relief in her eyes. She’d lain awake all night, he supposed. In her imagination he had scoffed, jeered at her. Then, disaster. Police.
    “I’d better get dressed,” he said brightly, and managed a smile as he closed the door.
    Madame Fitou and her sister held the doors open and Casson backed out carefully into the rue Chardin. No point in scratching the bodywork, he thought. He let the car idle a moment, then shifted into first gear. He didn’t particularly share the national worship of automobiles, but this one had been very hard to get hold of and he was sorry to lose it.
    A Simca 302. A model last manufactured in 1934, so those seen around Paris were all of a certain age. A sedan convertible, built low to the ground, always forest green. Walnut dash, rag top, throaty engine. Just the sort of car the producer Jean Casson might be expected to drive. Actually, just the sort of car the producer Jean Casson might be expected to drive—Jensen, Morgan, Riley—the producer Jean Casson couldn’t afford.
    The 302 was nice enough to look at, but it wasn’t at all nice to its owner. It was a sulky, spoiled car that drank gas, that sputtered and died at traffic lights, that whined if made to go at high speeds, that wanted nothing to do with the weather after October. Still, it was a credible showpiece, and if it misbehaved with an important personage—it knew who was sitting in its passenger seat—Casson would smile and shake his head, helpless. A depraved passion, what could one do.
    Of course it drove like an angel on its way to the garage. Out avenue Malakoff on a cloudy August morning, a few sprinkles of rain. Casson worked his way patiently through swarms of bicyclists; clerks and factory workers, young and old, everyone peddling along together, most of them sour-faced and grim, ringing their bicycle bells when some idiot went too slow or too fast.
    The light was red at the intersection of Malakoff and the busy avenue Foch. A black sedan pulled up next to him and Casson and the passenger glanced at each other. German soldiers. Casson turned away. They were junior officers, probably lieutenants. They had the look of young men going to work at a bank or a law office—perhaps the military version, paymaster or judge