on, became Ilona, the fake Hungarian countess, and delivered the line, ‘I cannot go on like this for one minute more, gentlemen, I cannot, and I will not.’ She was wonderfully arrogant and imperious, but the battered hat made her hauteur look silly and everyone laughed. Then they waited for Gilles Brecker, the Alsatian with blond hair and steel- framed glasses, the movie’s lieutenant. At last, just when Avila had begun to look at his watch, Brecker came through the door.
Rather awkwardly, he came through the door, because his left arm was in a cast, carried by a sling. Nobody said a word, although Avila opened his mouth, then self-control won out and he remained silent. And they waited — politely, ‘Good morning, Gilles’ and such — until he took a breath and said, ‘Please don’t worry, it’s only six weeks.’
Six weeks. ‘You’ve broken your arm,’ Avila said evenly. He’d tried for a simple statement of fact, but the accusation in his voice, though faint, was audible.
‘My wrist,’ Brecker said.
‘Were you in an accident?’ said Piro, a truly good soul, her expression kind and caring. She still wore the hat.
‘Does it hurt?’ Stahl said. He felt sorry for Brecker, but there was something about the sudden bad luck that nagged at him.
‘I can work,’ Brecker said defensively. ‘It just takes getting used to.’
‘All right,’ Pasquin said, out of patience. ‘What happened?’
‘Well, I was out last night, I’d had a quarrel with my friend and I was very hurt, very angry, so I went up to La Fourche.’ La Fourche, the fork, where the Avenue de Clichy joined the Avenue de Saint-Ouen, was infamous, a cluster of bars and bawdy nightclubs, a sexual bazaar where any and all tastes were easily accommodated. ‘It was after midnight in this little place on the rue Saint-Jean and everyone was drinking, really drinking, and some sort of fight started between two men who were standing at the bar. It was dark, people were shouting, pushing and shoving, and someone swung a chair. I don’t have any idea who he was trying to hit, but who he did hit was me. I hardly felt it, I thought I might have a bruise, and I got out of there, found a taxi, and headed home. But by the time I got there my arm was turning terrible colours so my friend took me down to the hospital on the Ile de la Cite, the doctor said it was broken, put the cast on, and gave me some pills.’ Brecker stood there for a moment, clearly miserable, and said, ‘I’m sorry, everybody, but it just happened, it was an accident.’
Was it?
The question hit Stahl hard and frightened him — physical fear, in the stomach. Was this an attack on him? Had the Germans sent a message? We will destroy your movie. He didn’t know, maybe it was an accident, maybe he was seeing phantoms. But the suspicion was there and, he knew, it wasn’t going to go away.
Now I have to do something.
In his mind he spoke the phrase, a pledge to himself.
On the set of the boulevard farce, the recovery began. Avila was already talking about shooting around Brecker once production started, somebody wondered if the lieutenant might have had his wrist broken at the prison camp, or perhaps it could be explained as an injury received in battle before the legionnaires were captured. Somebody else thought that idea might work if a dirty cloth were used to hide the white cast. But Stahl didn’t really follow the discussion and didn’t take part in it. He would finish the day’s rehearsal, return to the hotel, and make a telephone call. In his mind, as the others went back and forth, he saw an image of the phone on his desk.
He called the American embassy and asked for Mme Brun, who quickly came on the line. Did he wish to speak to Mr Wilkinson? Thank you Mme Brun, but what he really needed was to meet personally with Mr Wilkinson. And it was urgent. ‘I see,’ Mme Brun said. ‘Can you stop by at six this evening? I’m sure he’ll have time for you.’
Stahl was there early, at 5.40, prepared to wait in the chair outside the office, but Wilkinson saw him immediately. Affable and welcoming, he said, ‘Hey, Mr Stahl, come on in. We’re fixing all sorts of problems today.’
Wilkinson’s office itself, as Stahl sat across from the diplomat, was comforting. Somehow the most commonplace things — the oil painting of Roosevelt on the wall, the squash racquet in the corner, the bulky presence of Wilkinson himself — inspired in Stahl a sense of American strength which, at that moment, felt very reassuring. Stahl lit a cigarette, Wilkinson, jacket off, tie pulled down, lit a cigar and made notes as they talked.
Stahl held nothing back, sensing it was crucial to tell Wilkinson the truth, in detail. Wilkinson was a good listener, didn’t interrupt, didn’t react, but the best thing about the way he listened to Stahl’s narrative was that he managed to give Stahl the impression that he’d heard all this before, it wasn’t new, it wasn’t as bad as Stahl feared. And there was more than a possibility that something could be done about it.
When Stahl wound down — Brecker’s wrist, the fight in the bar — Wilkinson waited for a moment, then said, ‘What do you want to do, Mr Stahl?’
‘I wish I had more ideas,’ Stahl said. ‘But the one that stays with me is to go to the police, maybe the Surete, the Deuxieme Bureau.’ The counter-espionage service of the French military, which Stahl knew well from French novels of intrigue — Inspector Maigret, other heroes from other books, were often involved with the Surete. ‘Until I talked to Andre Sokoloff, and earlier to you, I didn’t appreciate the scale of this thing. I expect the secret services might be interested in what’s going on.’
‘Very reasonable, the very thing I would do if I weren’t sitting behind this desk.’ Wilkinson puffed at his cigar, making sure it didn’t go out. ‘But if you think it through, it may not be such a good idea. For example, the police, say a detective from the Eighth Arrondissement where your hotel is located. Somebody broke into your room, did he steal anything? Other than your peace of mind? That should come under some law but it doesn’t.’ Wilkinson smiled ruefully, Stahl nodded, rueful as well. ‘And of course you informed the manager at your hotel.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Oh?’ Wilkinson played the detective rather well, one eyebrow raised.
‘I knew what would happen: a lot of flapping of hands and apologies and “ terrible! ” this and “ c’est insupportable! ” that and on and on, then nothing is done. In fact, what could they do?’
‘And did you report the incident to the police?’
‘Not that either.’
‘So the next line is: ‘Monsieur, I don’t see how I can help you.’ And to break into somebody’s room is actually against the law. Will you tell the police you were forced to go to an irritating lunch at Maxim’s?’
Stahl didn’t bother to answer.
‘Misrepresented by a newspaper interview? What law did that break? The law of newspaper honesty?’ Wilkinson started to laugh, then said, ‘I’m not being cruel, Mr Stahl, but you have to realize these people are no fools, they’re not going to leave themselves vulnerable to the police.’
‘And the Surete? This is, after all, part of a conspiracy against the state.’
Wilkinson’s mood changed. He leaned back in his desk chair and clasped his hands behind his head, revealing damp circles on the underarms of his shirt. ‘Do you keep secrets, Mr Stahl? Is that something that matters to you? Because what I am going to tell you is confidential — it’s not a state secret or anything like that, but I’d rather people didn’t know we talked about it.’
‘I don’t tell secrets,’ Stahl said. ‘I don’t really know why I don’t, it’s just part of my character. Gossip is in the bloodstream of Hollywood, but I don’t take part in it, in fact I really don’t like it.’
Wilkinson pursed his lips, then nodded to himself, choosing to believe what Stahl had said. ‘I think I may have told you earlier that the French know all about German conspiracies, but they do nothing. Here’s an example, and it involves your friend Sokoloff, who is somebody who can be believed. Two years ago, in 1936, a German spy came to the offices of Paris-Soir, in fact to Sokoloff, and brought with him a stolen dossier. He was done with working for the German services and this was an act of — revenge? Idealism? Who knows. Now I never saw the dossier but I know, generally, what was in there. Names, dates, transactions, everything one would need for a determined counter- attack against Nazi political warfare. If that dossier had been made public, some very big heads would have rolled in this country. It would have changed things, shown Germany’s real intention towards her neighbour. Conquest.’
‘And? I can’t imagine Sokoloff did nothing.’
‘No, he did what he should have done, though not what every journalist would do — the spy chose prudently when he went to Sokoloff. The dossier, and a record of what the spy said, were passed to French military intelligence. And then nothing happened. This decision to do nothing may have a lot to do with the present state of
