Paris: The Novel

French generals: avenue Foch. And the Gestapo had chosen well when they took over three houses at the avenue’s lower end. “My office,” he had written to his parents with satisfaction, “is on the Avenue Foch, which is a very good address.”
    He was not entirely surprised when Luc appeared to see him. When he had first encountered him, it had seemed to Schmid that, by his demeanor, the fellow might be a potential informer, and he had been thinking of going by the bar again someday.
    He was pleased that Luc didn’t waste any time.
    “I could not speak in public, Lieutenant Schmid,” Luc said politely, “but I know many corners of Paris. If I can ever be of service to you …”
    “Do you expect to be paid?” Schmid asked.
    “If my services are useful. One has to live.”
    Schmid had no intention of paying without results. It was a good sign that the man wasn’t asking for that.
    “I can pay a little.” Schmid looked at Luc thoughtfully. “If you hear of any illegal activity, any terrorist plans …”
    “I avoid that world myself,” Luc said carefully. “But I sometimes hear things.” He paused. “Is there anything else you need?”
    “The Wehrmacht has already confiscated some art, as you will be aware, I am sure. But there is so much art in Paris, often in criminal hands. Paintings especially. I take a personal interest in such matters.”
    “I understand. The owners have to be arrested. But then the work may be confiscated.” Luc nodded. “A valuable business.”
    “I have said you will be paid.”
    Luc inclined his head politely.
    “I shall make inquiries,” he said. “They may take time.”
    “Come to see me at the start of every month,” Schmid ordered. “Meanwhile, I know where to find you.”
    Time would tell whether this smooth Frenchman of the streets would produce anything of value.

    As Luc went about his business in the months that followed, one thing seemed very clear: his self-interest lay with the Germans.
    True, only days after he had first met Schmid, news came that the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor, and America had entered the conflict. People were saying that the tide of war would change. It might be so. It might not. But any such change was far over the horizon.
    By June 1942, the British were starting to bomb German cities. But that wasn’t stopping the Germans from launching a new offensive in Russia that was sweeping toward the mighty River Volga.
    And in France, in Paris especially, the German grip was total.
    All the same, Luc didn’t want to get on the wrong side of the Resistance. Successful or not, the Dalou boys and their friends could be dangerous. He’d be better keeping in with them. Besides, the more he knew about their activities, the more opportunities there might be, if he was careful, to sell information to Schmid.
    More than once he’d said to Thomas, “I was wrong not to have come out with you when you did the job on the Eiffel Tower. Tell the Dalou boys I’d be glad to come another time.”
    It was a dangerous line to walk. But he thought he could manage it.
    He hadn’t yet been able to find an art collector for the German. He’d thought of Marc, naturally. But in the first place, Marc was a longtime customer—and Luc always looked after his customers. Besides, Marc wasin high favor with the Germans, and he doubted very much that Marc was involved in any way with any Resistance groups.
    But he’d been able to make himself useful to the Gestapo nonetheless. When Schmid had asked him to watch a French engineer who he thought might be running several wireless operators, he had done so, and the engineer had been arrested. Luc had been paid something after that. Once, when he overheard the Dalou boys planning a raid to steal explosives from a store down in Boulogne-Billancourt, he’d waited to make sure that Thomas was not involved, and then gave Schmid the tip-off. The next time he saw Schmid, the Gestapo man remarked: “We ignored that tip you gave us about the explosives.”
    “And?”
    “They stole them. Can you tell me who they were?”
    Luc threw up his hands.
    “Unfortunately no,” he lied. “It was two men I overheard, but I’d never seen them before. If I see them again, I’ll tell you.”
    “Well,” Schmid said, “I shall listen to you next time. By the way,” he added, “there is something else I want. If you can find me some.”
    “What is that?”
    “Jews. But not just any Jews. I want French Jews. Find me