Free Midnight in Europe by Alan Furst Page A

Morgan.”
    Ferrar had wanted to ask where they were going but there was no hope of that. Cold as hell on a February night, Ferrar thought, but a fine way to see Paris. Zooming past taxis and street-cleaning tanker trucks, the Morgan wove through the Sixth, crossed the Seine, followed the shabby edge of the First Arrondissement to a neighborhood of crumbling tenements next to the Les Halles market, then was briefly on the rue Saint-Denis, where the strolling prostitutes just loved the sports car and its occupants, waving and calling out to them—juicy sentiments no doubt but inaudible. De Lyon made a left and, a street or two later, turned into the rue du Cygne, where a giant doorman with gold epaulets on his uniform put two fingers to his cap as de Lyon and Ferrar struggled out of the car. A discreet sign by the door said LE CYGNE , the Swan, a nightclub named for its address.
    Inside the door, a maître d’ in a tuxedo said, with just a suggestion of a bow, “Good evening, Monsieur de Lyon. Your usual table?” He then led them downstairs, whipped the RÉSERVÉ sign off a table by the wall, and bowed once more, clearly pleased withwhatever de Lyon put in his hand. Very chic, Le Cygne; an Art Deco room, the floor in glossy black and white tile, walls painted black, indirect lighting—the lights hidden in a cornice at the edge of the ceiling—and black-lacquered tables. On a bandstand at the far end of the room, a quartet—guitar, violin, bass, and drums—was just getting ready to perform. A waiter appeared, de Lyon ordered champagne. “They may have something else,” he said, “but I’ve never seen it.”
    The quartet began to play, a rendition of “Nuages” in the Django Reinhardt style, as patrons flocked to the cleared area and began to dance. Very highly dressed patrons, some of the women with daring necklines, others in backless gowns. One of the latter was dancing with a man in a tarboosh—the round, red, Middle Eastern hat with a tassel—who wore dark sunglasses. De Lyon saw what Ferrar was looking at and said, “He’s here every night, known as ‘the Lebanese.’ ” The Lebanese danced beautifully, with clever feet, three fingertips resting low on the bare back of his partner.
    As the champagne arrived and the waiter used a linen napkin to open the bottle, Ferrar said, “Do you know these people, Max?”
    “Oh, it’s the usual crowd. Parisians of the better class, criminals, swindlers, nouveaux riches from the western suburbs, a spy or two. What you find in a nightclub in this city—at least a nightclub like Le Cygne. Do you see that woman in green, sitting by the bandstand?”
    It took some time, then Ferrar said, “Wearing a kind of oriental tunic, with a high neck? And pearl earrings?”
    “That’s her.”
    Ferrar studied the woman and said, “An aristocrat, if I had to guess.”
    De Lyon nodded and drank some champagne. “The most perfect bearing, the way she holds herself tells the world she is far above them, and the most perfect manners, she condescends to no one. You should hear her voice , low and seductive, and she speaks this educated Parisian French, it’s like music.”
    “You know her, then.”
    “Yes, in a professional way. She is one of the great madams of this city.”
    “No! Really? Her? She keeps a brothel?”
    De Lyon laughed. “No, no, my friend, nothing of the kind. But she will arrange, for a breathtaking amount of money, a rendezvous with a lovely upper-class woman who must pay her dressmaker. The money goes to Angélique over there, and she pays her friend. And then, what happens … happens, though one mustn’t be too much of a snorting pig, unless the lady wishes it.”
    “A service you use?” Ferrar said.
    “Not personally, I don’t like to pay to make love, but it’s one of the, umm, inducements I can provide for a business associate.” After a moment he said, “Would you care to indulge? I will arrange it.”
    “No, I like love affairs, a