Midnight in Europe by Alan Furst Read Free Book Online Page A

in the black beret, he saw, was having an apple for dessert. Eyes on her magazine, she cut slices from the apple and ate them with her fingers. What was she, thirty-five? A little older? Small and fine-boned— petite was the word people used.
    Suddenly she raised her head and caught him looking at her. She met his eyes, then, for a bare instant, an impish smile lit her face and she was gone, back to reading. Was that for him? No, she was just amused, it wasn’t flirtation.
    What was he doing? Oh yes, pouring wine. The carafe was made of thick, heavy glass, he supposed it would last longer that way, used and washed and used again. Now he tried to be covert, had a brief glance at her, only to discover that she had beckonedthe waitress to her table. Was she asking for the check? Yes, only the apple core was left, she was done with dinner. The waitress acknowledged the request and turned away to get the check. Oh well . As Ferrar drank from his glass, the waitress stopped, the woman said something, the waitress answered, then hurried off.
    Now what? Ferrar ate a bite of potato and waited for developments. And moments later the waitress returned with a coffee. The woman in the black beret had changed her mind, she would linger awhile over coffee. Ferrar didn’t want to get caught again and lowered his eyes. Lowered his eyes for a few seconds, then looked up. Now he’d caught her , peering at him over the cup as she drank. In a small face, large eyes, dark, with long lashes. Like dogs’ eyes , he thought. What a compliment! Mentally, he laughed at himself. But the silent laugh rose to the surface as a smile.
    This time returned.
    Ferrar had eaten most of his dinner, did he really want the rest? He signaled to the waitress and, when she came to the table, he looked at his watch, spread his hands in the nothing to be done position, and said, “L’addition, s’il vous plaît.”
    Ferrar paid the check, then bided his time. When the woman in the beret rose from her chair he could see all of her. She was petite—maybe two inches over five feet tall—but well shaped in a chocolate-brown wool dress cinched by a narrow belt. As she headed for the coat tree he followed her, arriving just as she took her overcoat off the peg. Ferrar, reaching for his coat, said, “Cold tonight, do you have a long way home?”
    “Oh, it’s not all that far.” Her voice, low and resolute, suggested that it was far.
    “I was thinking, there’s a taxi stand a little way up Cherche Midi, I’d be happy to give you a ride home, if you like.”
    “Why that is so kind of you. What if I said ‘yes’?”
    “It would be my pleasure. My name is Cristián.”
    “And I am Chantal.” She slid her arm into the sleeve of her coat, then said “Merde!” and made a face, pulling her arm back out of the sleeve with an oatmeal-colored wool scarf in her hand. “I never fail to stuff my scarf in the sleeve so I don’t forget it, and I never fail to forget it’s there.”
    She wound the scarf around her neck, looping it over and under in the style favored by Parisian women, put on her coat, and led him to the door. Walking toward the taxi stand she said, “I have always liked Chez Lucette,” and went on for a time about the restaurant, puffs of steam coming from her mouth as she spoke. There was a taxi waiting— thank heaven —the driver starting the engine as they approached. Ferrar held the door open as Chantal climbed in, then went around and got in the other side. “I live on the avenue Bourdonnais,” she said. “Number fourteen, the far end.”
    As the taxi wove its way through narrow streets, they were silent; what had gone on between them in the restaurant had been replaced by a certain tension. Outside, Paris was wintry and deserted. As the taxi neared the avenue Bourdonnais, Chantal suddenly looked at her watch, then covered her face with her hands. “Oh I have been stupid,” she said.
    “What did you do?”
    “I have loaned my apartment