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Chapter One: Tuesday 27 November 1934

Her funeral had to be here.

St Jacques du Haut-Pas wasn’t the oldest church in Paris. Most of the current structure dated back only to the middle of the 17th century, although there had been a place of worship on the site for much longer. The tall vaulted arches framed generous stained-glass windows that bathed the interior in a warm light, particularly on sunny days. Even on this grey November morning it didn’t seem quite as dark inside the church as one might expect.

St Jacques wasn’t that different from the other parish churches on the Left Bank. One could find it just a few steps from the Luxembourg Gardens, on the border of the 5th and 6th Arrondissements. The Gardens had been Pauline’s favourite place to walk; she always loved watching the children launch their sailing boats in the big central fountain, in front of the Luxembourg Palace, where the Senate of the Third Republic met. St Jacques was the parish church where she was baptised, and where she was married. Her funeral had to be here. He understood all too well.

John James Armstrong III, JJ to his friends, sat alone in the front row of old wooden chairs that filled the nave, the unadorned oak coffin of his wife to his left. The flowers available in winter were not to either of their tastes. He wore his favourite navy-blue suit, the one she insisted he buy at La Samaritaine, with the double-cuff white shirt that he bought at the same time. His pocket handkerchief matched his dark royal blue tie. JJ was glad that he chose his comfortable black Oxford shoes. His one concession to tradition. He sat straight in his chair, just like the nuns insisted when he was in grammar school. He was alone with his thoughts, and paid no attention as his friends and family started to arrive for the service. He was grateful that they cared, but had no interest in greeting them. What could any of them say that could ease his pain or soften his anger? At least he didn’t have to say any public words of farewell. For all his skill and charm, that was something he couldn’t bring himself to do. Not today.

He hadn’t made up his mind whether he was sorry his parents couldn’t get here from New York in time, or if he was relieved that he didn’t have to listen to their well-meaning but ineffectual words. His mother in particular would have wanted to do something. She had been proud of Pauline. Now, there was nothing to be done.

His mother’s family had arrived from Angers. It was typically kind of his grandmother to make the effort on his behalf. She understood. The French may be romantic, but they’re not particularly sentimental. His French cousins, nieces, uncles and aunts filed in behind his grandmother, like the retinue of a major royal.

Pauline’s family was more distant. Conservative French, they had just started being comfortable with her marriage to an American. They were formal, strict observers of all Catholic rituals, rarely laughed, and remembered with regret the expenditure of every centime. Pauline’s younger brother was fascinated with the lives of the saints, and her sister, the youngest of the three, constantly dreamed about marrying well, having a large family, and living in a great farmhouse in the country. Pauline had been the opposite of all of them in every way.

JJ remembered all the details. They’d met in 1929. He was instantly smitten; he worked hard to be his most charming self - clever, witty. He was confident he had outdone himself. She just laughed and enjoyed his company. Neither had been the least bit interested in marriage. It was hard to tell whether they or their friends were the more surprised when they married a year later, a month after his 31st birthday. He then had the best four years of his life. He preferred to plan everything in advance; double-checking, making sure he had alternative choices for every situation, and insisting that they always arrive fifteen minutes early for an appointment or a train. She was spontaneous, quick-witted, and enthusiastic about life. They enjoyed challenging each other and supporting each other.

They were competitive in the best sense of the word. If one had success, then the other felt pushed to achieve something, just to keep up. Inspired in part by Berthe Weill’s famous exhortation to “make way for the young” (and the avant-garde), JJ’s fine arts business grew beyond his hopes. Encouraged by both Brassaï and Man Ray, Pauline’s photography became compelling and powerful. They had works by all three in their apartment, and hers had pride of place. Together, their life was wonderful. Most weekends they either entertained friends in their apartment or just spent the evenings having a friendly debate about the meaning of one thing or another.

JJ looked briefly around the church. This was all so painfully stupid. Pauline hadn’t needed to drive back from Angers on a rainy afternoon. She didn’t have to be in Paris the next morning. She could have left their car with his grandmother and taken the train. It didn’t have to be like this.

JJ had a secret he was keeping from everyone. It was, he thought, impossible to share. Pauline’s voice was, quietly, subtly, still in his head. He was starting to accept that she was dead. But at the same time, for him, she still existed. Occasionally he’d hear a rustle of something in the apartment. He’d catch a slight suggestion of the scent of her perfume. He might hear the softest “Bonne nuit” just before he fell asleep. There were other more reasonable explanations, but he wanted to believe that the two of them were still connected. Of course, he knew it wasn’t literally true, but the idea of it was a comfort.

As the families escorted the coffin out of the nave at the end of the service, the bells tolled, and it began to rain. Good, thought JJ, it should rain today. Maybe never stop. He made a promise to himself. Never again would he feel pain like he had today. No one else was ever going to get that close.

Jules came towards him. He wore a raincoat and a hat. He disliked using an umbrella; in his business he needed to keep both hands free. “JJ, you’re getting soaked. Stop feeling sorry for yourself.” Blunt and direct as always. His other old close friend, Fabienne LaRoche, joined the pair. As she was the tallest of the three, she held her bespoke Smith & Sons umbrella above them as the group huddled underneath. Jules was as conventional in the rest of his attire as he was with the raincoat: black single-breasted suit, white shirt, black silk tie and well-polished black shoes. Fabienne, like JJ, liked to challenge convention from time to time. Her umbrella protected a dark grey wool suit jacket and trousers that Schiaparelli had made for her a couple of years earlier. The jacket was faced in deep navy-blue silk, with a subtle decoration in gold thread and small pearls by Lesage. While her preference for her handbag and low heels would usually have been a golden yellow or burgundy colour, she chose navy blue out of respect for the occasion.

“Mon cher Commissaire, chère Fabienne, thank you for your concern.” JJ paused and looked at his friends. For a moment he had forgotten they were also his family. “Alors, quoi faire? Everyone tells me I have my work.” He paused again, keeping his emotions in control. “I don’t give a damn.” He gave a smile that had no joy in it. “So, what happens now?”

Fabienne sighed, and glanced at JJ and then at Jules with the kind of understanding look that communicates so much between old friends. The two then reached out to their American friend, Fabienne linking with JJ’s left arm and Jules gently guiding the right.

Under the shared umbrella, the three walked alone together for a while, talking quietly, and then came back and joined the others.

It rained for the rest of the week.

News Headlines

Chapter Two: Monday 24 October 1938

JJ walked towards Place St-Michel, placing each of his steps with care. He had turned left off Boulevard St-Germain onto Rue Danton. He paused frequently to inspect the store fronts on both sides of the street, and to look down the narrow alleys as he passed each one. Every shop window had something of interest. Devernois had their winter selection on display. The jacquard knit sweaters for men were bold - perhaps a bit too vibrant for his taste, but interesting. La Maison Henry was showing their familiar pottery and ceramic cookware in the windows. If the overflowing rubbish bins were any indication, the brasseries and bistros were doing a brisk trade.

His pace allowed for reflection but also gave him the opportunity to patrol his neighbourhood as if he was on duty. Jules called it his ‘plod’. It was a careful, intentional walk, the opposite of the mindless stroll of a flâneur.

As he walked, JJ remembered the times he tagged along with Officer Jacobs, walking his beat up and down Columbus Avenue and then over to Broadway. His mother, with her bourgeois French sensibilities, didn’t approve. She had, however, as always, indulged her first-born. JJ smiled at the thought of his teenaged self, feeling older than his years, sitting in a corner of the precinct house, talking about life with the officers and detectives there. He watched the world of chancers, mobsters and criminals of all sorts that passed through, and drew conclusions about life. Officer Jacobs meant a great deal to him, then and now. He always listened to JJ and never judged, just suggested. JJ thought of him often and missed his wisdom.

JJ paused as he reached the fountain in the centre of Place St-Michel. It all looked so very different than at night. Not unlike the beautiful women one could encounter in the various bars around the Place every evening; the early morning light didn’t do them any favours either.

He opened the door of the Comptoir d’Or. It didn’t really have a golden counter, but it did have good coffee. The old man behind the bar reached for a cup, made the coffee, and had it sitting on the bar for JJ by the time he crossed the room.

“You’re a bit late this morning.”

JJ just shrugged. “You seen my friend recently?”

The barman shook his head. “Not for a while.” He looked at JJ. “I thought you liked being alone.”

“I do, but we had a bet on the football match. He took Cannes and I had Angers. Les Noirs et Blancs won. I was hoping he’d buy the coffee this morning.” JJ took a few coins out of his pocket and stacked them on the counter. “Thanks.”

He walked along the Seine, heading back towards his shop. It would be a couple more hours before the bouquinistes opened up their boxes. It was quiet and peaceful.

JJ reached Quai Voltaire and turned left onto Rue du Bac. He paused in the middle of the old narrow cobblestoned street and admired Galerie Ruskin. What he saw pleased him. With the new rich burgundy paint and white lettering on the storefront, his shop had a modern yet dignified air about it. Glancing up and down Rue du Bac, he and his gallery fitted the neighbourhood. That was important.

He had arrived in Paris in late 1922, and it had taken him almost two years to find the shop and establish what was, at first, a struggling business. Fortunately, he had friends. And luck. Now his struggle was to sustain success. This was his neighbourhood. Even after all that had happened, here was where he belonged; here was where he had felt happiness; here was where he now pursued what mattered most: a comfortable life. It was what he had left.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught something moving on the street. He turned to see the approach of a dark blue Citroën 7 Traction Avant while it was just turning the corner from Boulevard St-Germain, two blocks away. JJ smiled. So, no time for coffee today, but perhaps time for a conversation.

He had stopped for a moment to admire what his gallery had become. Now he was starting to feel the cold, even with his old comfortable blanket-weight Donegal tweed sports coat buttoned up over his navy cashmere roll-neck sweater and with his charcoal grey cavalry-twill wool trousers. Moving easily and confidently, JJ stepped over the kerb, opened the door and went inside. Standing in front of his desk he could see the Citroën pull over and park in a loading bay.

JJ spent at least part of most Monday mornings making sure that the display of items he had on offer was ideally arranged: repositioning a vase, moving a chair, changing the items displayed on a bureau or commode. He was proud of the art, and wanted to make sure that his customers would appreciate all of it as they were led from one period to another, from one idea to another, in their search for beautiful objects. For him, beautiful things were both a comfort and a reassurance.

He made a half-turn and started to shuffle some papers on the desk. Almost immediately the door opened, the bell sounding someone’s arrival. “Salut, Jules. Does it go well for you this morning?” JJ hadn’t bothered to look up or turn around.

Jules frowned and shook his head. “So. You think that old gag about eyes in the back of your head is still funny.” He paused. “You need to be more serious.”

JJ turned to face his friend. At five feet ten, JJ was just a bit taller than the Frenchman, with a lean build, as if he had been an athlete when younger - whilst the policeman had more of a wrestler’s build, with sandy-brown hair and eyes. Compared to other flics, he had an almost gentle mien. JJ was just starting to show a bit of grey mixed in with the deep russet-coloured hair at his temples, which gave him a certain gravitas, along with gentle grey eyes.

“I meant no harm. You should relax more. What can I do for you? Your wife would love this Sèvres vase. For her, I’d be delighted to offer you a serious discount. Strictly a courtesy, of course.” He gave the policeman a gentle smile as he said it.

“It is exquisite. A Goddé, I think, from about 1875? It’s beyond my poor policeman’s budget, but thank you.” Jules took off his black hat, dark grey overcoat and navy scarf and sat down in one of the art-deco-upholstered chairs that faced JJ’s new burr-walnut English writing desk, which was also art-deco style.

JJ noted that his friend’s time on the fraud and larceny squad had improved his eye. He remembered, when they were younger, how much fun and success they had chasing art forgers together: Jules had called him a consultant; JJ thought more in terms of being a crack police detective. Seeing the serious look on his friend’s face, JJ realised this wasn’t a social call, but waited for his friend to start the conversation. He hoped that it wasn’t going to be another lecture about how JJ lived his life: the money he now spent on bespoke clothes, or how he paid too much for the wine in his cave.

“I was hoping we could talk for a few minutes.”

“Of course. What’s bothering you this morning?”

“Munich.”

JJ pursed his lips and nodded.

Jules continued, “JJ, I know you pay close attention to current events and dine at the tables of important people.”

JJ gestured as if to say, One does as one can.

“I have friends and colleagues in the Deuxième Bureau and Quai d’Orsay,” Jules went on. “It’s clear that Europe has chosen war. Have you thought about what you’re going to do?”

“You mean when war breaks out?”

Jules nodded.

JJ changed the positions of two vases on top of a bureau and then sat down at his desk. “En bref, it’s not my war. Whether or not there’s peace or honour, I plan to keep living as I have. If the war is short, then the disruption will be short. If the war is long, then adjustments will have to be made.” JJ paused. He wasn’t sure Jules had considered the other possibility. “And if the Germans win, the world will change. The right-wing elites who loathe the Third Republic and fear communists more than Nazis – that will be their moment. That’s why I spend some of my time with them. Hedging my bets.”

He watched as Jules stood up and walked around the shop, stopping to admire a writing desk and appreciating a pair of rather ornate porcelain candlesticks that were placed on top. He turned, faced JJ, and frowned. “That’s a fine line you’re trying to walk. I would hate for you to miscalculate.”

“I don’t like them, but I don’t see many alternatives. Their food is good, their wine cellars are amazing, and they pay on time.” JJ smiled and gestured with his hand. “And I have expensive tastes.” He approached his friend as if to grab his shoulder. “Come now, Jules, why are you so worried? It may not turn out that badly. There’s still the French army, and now, probably the British as well. We may have little faith in the government, but the army is still the army.”

Jules twisted to avoid JJ’s grip. “Damn it, the war will make you take sides. For the Republic or against it. You’ll have to choose. You can’t stay in Paris and not be involved.”

“I’m American, Jules. Neutral, like Switzerland. If they can find a profitable advantage to neutrality, so can I.”

“Bah. You’ll see.” The policeman sat back down, and his tone changed, becoming a bit more of an older brother, which JJ thought funny given they were the same age. “I don’t want to bring this up—”

“Then don’t.”

“JJ, I’m serious. What would Pauline think about the life you’re living now?”

JJ frowned. “Bringing my wife into the discussion doesn’t advance your argument. To be honest, her advice is to live my life and to enjoy the time we have. It all ends too soon.”

The policeman continued, “What about Fabienne? You can’t tell me that Pauline approved of her.”

JJ’s eyes narrowed. He stared first over his friend’s shoulder at the row of vases behind the policeman, then directly at the Frenchman. Had it really started fifteen years ago? “Actually, Pauline and Fabienne were good friends. Sometimes I felt as if they ganged up on me. A sort of sisterhood of co-conspirators. So please don’t try and bring her into this.” He continued to stare directly at Jules. “You are my oldest friend, more my brother than my brother was. But you’re not my guardian.” There was an unusual firmness in JJ’s tone. “Fabienne is also an old friend. We understand each other.”

“For God’s sake, she runs a brothel.” Jules almost spat the phrase out.

JJ shook his head. “Bordello.”

Jules cocked his head. “What’s the difference?”

JJ smiled. “The food and wine are better.” He paused in reflection for a moment. “Come to think of it, everything is better. The 324 is one of the most highly regarded establishments in France. An honest place, filled with hard-working people who are good at their jobs. It’s a shame, my friend, that we can’t describe any of the recent governments in the same terms. And in truth, she’s closer to more of the Parisian elite than I am.”

“Really?” The sarcasm in the detective’s voice was obvious.

JJ took a breath. He knew he was lucky to have a friend like Jules. Still, maybe it was time. “Tell me again how you became one of the youngest commissaires in Paris. If I remember correctly, there were twenty of you who stood for the exam. You were one of four chosen, even though you placed sixth on the written test. Correct?”

“Yes, but there were other factors – my recommendations, the scores from the pistol range – many things.”

“Including a suggestion to certain senior members of the selection committee that the young sergeant from Angers would be an excellent choice.”

Jules gave a short dismissive laugh. “Who has such influence and would care which sergeant got a promotion?”

“Fabienne did and still does.”

The Frenchman stood up, started to say something, changed his mind, slumped back into the chair, and frowned.

JJ was concerned that he had somehow hurt his friend. He tried a different approach. “I think that sometimes we just see the world differently. You have an almost Augustinian sense of sin and redemption. I side with Emerson. He said that there are three repeating things that exist in the world. Love of Truth, Love of Good, Love of Beauty. Look around. The art that surrounds us shows us all three. Maybe that’s why I spend so much time here.”

The policeman gave his friend a funny look. “Sometimes you go off into a very strange world. What I see is concrete, real, no illusion. These things are pretty, of course. But they’re not what matters.”

JJ interrupted. “Quite the opposite. Art, music, poetry - these are the things that define who we are. Artists are not pawns of the moment. And the art that they create is truly real, permanent.” He paused. “At least for me. They are timeless, and yet they allow me to move through time.” He looked at Jules and smiled. “These are the things I believe in. My religion, if you like.”

Jules looked at his friend and shook his head. “I think you try to be too clever. Sometimes I feel like you use your education as if it were a club to beat the rest of us.”

“I’m sorry. I do get carried away. Maybe I spend too much time in my world, and not enough out there.” He waved his hand towards the street. “But it’s safe here.” He gestured. “Look closely at that painting or that vase. The best, most artistic, most truthful aspects of humanity, laced with genuine emotion. Ancient or new, they’re all honest and beautiful. Each time you look at a good piece of art, you see it differently and notice something else… And they don’t die.”

“Quite a speech. But they do get stolen from time to time.”

JJ nodded in agreement. “The world isn’t perfect. But without villains, you’d need a new career.”

Jules sat there, not smiling. JJ saw his friend tighten his grip on the arms of his chair. The warmth was almost gone from his eyes. “Art won’t save you.”

JJ looked at his friend sadly. There was truth in what he said. “I know, but it’s what I have. Now, mon cher ami, if you aren’t busy chasing swindlers and thieves this evening, would you join me for dinner? There’s a small restaurant just around the corner, a husband and wife plus the cook. Happily, they’re open on Mondays. This time of year, they have an excellent cassoulet and a delightful roast chicken, with carrots done with honey and thyme. The wine list is small but well-chosen. The prices are most correct. You know St Thomas More’s prayer, ‘Lord, grant me a good digestion and also something to digest’? This is a good answer to the prayer. What do you say?”

Jules relaxed his grip on the arms of the chair, opened his mouth to say something, and then just gave a little laugh. “Yeah, that sounds good. I’ll let my wife know I’ll be late. One thing, though: I’ll buy the wine.”

“That’s most generous.”

Jules shook his head. “Not at all. It’s just that I’ll be damned if I ever let an American choose the wine.”

Chapter Three: Tuesday 13 December 1938

The Lutetia was the Left Bank’s only luxury hotel. For JJ it was easily the equal to the Ritz, or the newer Le Bristol, both on the Right Bank. Whenever friends wanted to reach JJ in the evening, they would call his favourite haunts: the bar at the Ritz, or Harry’s Bar, certainly the small bar at the Crillon, all on the Right Bank. But they knew to call here first.

JJ looked up at the frescoes on the wall above the bar and smiled. It was like being in a grand Roman villa. He thought about the art-nouveau exterior façade and how it blended with the art-deco lobby, and smiled again. He ran his hand along the wood inlay of the bar and nodded his head approvingly. It felt good to surround oneself with the best craftsmanship. It was a sort of balm for the rest of the world. He thought about the Left Bank. Here was where knowledge and the arts were rewarded.

Sitting at the far end of the bar, where he could see who came into the room without being noticed, JJ was enjoying his conversation with Pete, his favourite barman.

“What brings you to the bar this evening, Monsieur JJ?”

“I’m meeting a friend. And it’s always a pleasure to spend time here.”

Pete smiled. “Thomas is getting jealous.”

JJ shrugged. “I spend time at the Ritz, when I can, but I live in the 6th. How do you know he’s jealous?”

Pete started wiping the top of the bar. “A bunch of us spend time after work at a place near Les Halles. When you work past midnight, you need a place to unwind. We talk about work and customers. Your name comes up from time to time.”

JJ gave a quick laugh. “Nothing serious, I hope. And Thomas has many outside interests, n’est-ce pas?”

Pete agreed. “He’s very well connected.”

JJ glanced at the entry and saw Jules entering the bar, along with someone he hadn’t seen in a few months. He had been concerned that some villain had delayed his friend. This was a more unwelcome explanation.

Excusing himself, JJ slid off the barstool and managed to get to their small table just as the two were taking off their overcoats and pulling their chairs out. He put his right hand on the policeman’s shoulder, startling his good friend. “Cher Commissaire, a pleasure to see you again. Mr Hyde, this is a surprise. What brings you here, away from the fog and mendacity of London?” He looked at the Englishman and then at his French friend. God, he thought, if only I could get them to play poker, I’d make a fortune.

Jules ordered drinks for the three of them as JJ sat down opposite two people working hard to act as if this wasn’t an official visit. Sitting there in his custom-tailored dark grey flannel suit, JJ waited patiently and watched as Hyde began what was clearly a rehearsed speech.

“First, Mr Armstrong, please accept again our sincere appreciations for being such an excellent correspondent to Sir Robert Vansittart and to my boss, Sir Hugh Sinclair, these past two years. The information you gleaned from the French political elite was remarkable. They both appreciate the contributions you’ve made. In fact, Sir Robert has remarked that he always found your information most helpful.”

JJ frowned. “Contributions to what, exactly?” Warming to the topic, he took a breath and continued, “Not to belabour the point, but my observations about the views of the ‘French political elite’ on the Rhineland Crisis, the effects of the Anglo-German Naval Treaty, the war in Spain, and God knows what else, were helpful how? Neither the former Permanent Under-Secretary at the Foreign Office nor the head of MI6 have been able to make any difference in the outcome. Here we are.” He gestured towards Jules. “As my friend here has said, Europe has chosen war. Those letters can be filed with all the other good intentions. In any event, that correspondence has ended. Now I’m just a regular guest of some slightly unsavoury but well-positioned people. A few have become clients of mine.” JJ paused. “They may be willing to sell other people’s liberty to keep their châteaux and their mistresses, but they do tend to pay cash for what they want.”

Hyde, in an Oxford grey suit that was almost properly tailored, along with a slightly-worn white shirt that had the slightest discolouration on his right cuff, and fancy striped tie (probably his school and not his regiment, JJ thought), pressed on with his speech. “It’s precisely because of those contacts, and the German friends that they have, that we have another proposition for you.”

“Uh-huh. You would like me, as an American living in Paris, to become some sort of agent, travelling around Europe, sending juicy titbits back to London by secret message, or telegrams with double meanings, or whatever. What I did was a favour to Van. He’s been a good friend to me and my family. If I were to consider any country my home, it would be France. But, as Commissaire Vitour can tell you, I don’t tear up at the sound of any national anthem. And I’ve no interest in playing some sort of real-life version of A J Raffles, the Amateur Cracksman. Thanks, but no thanks.”

Hyde pushed his glass to one side and leaned forward, closing the space between himself and JJ. In an urgent voice he continued, “Armstrong, you’ve seen what the Nazis are. You understand the threat they represent. You tried to help your Jewish friends get out of Germany. You just said war is coming. Why not join those of us who will have to fight those thugs?”

JJ went very still and was silent for almost a minute. His face showed no emotion. He downed the rest of his drink in one swallow. Then, softly, he responded. “Yes, my attempt to be the Scarlet Pimpernel ended badly.” A brief, mirthless smile. “But I don’t think that a representative of the British government is in any position to appeal to honour or duty. If England ever decides to fight, it will be to save your Empire, not to free the oppressed. Remember, no country cares about the Jews. Delegates from what? – thirty-two? - countries met last July, remember? How to help the Jews in Germany? Do nothing, apparently. Unless they’re Einstein or Klemperer, they’re not welcome in any country. Not yours, not mine.”

Hyde spread his hands out over the table. “But just last week, we took in the first group of Jewish children, coming from an orphanage that the Germans had burned. They’re calling it the Kindertransport.”

JJ shook his head. “Yes, children, each having a £50 bond posted, being cared for on a temporary basis” – he repeated the phrase for emphasis – “a temporary basis… by decent people in Great Britain. Pity their parents and grandparents aren’t part of the programme. If I thought that Daladier could be trusted – if I had faith in Chamberlain – it might be a different story. The Nazis killed my friends. Murdered them in the street while the police turned their backs. In a way, France, England, the United States, all had their backs turned as well. Sorry, Hyde, but the actions of the British and French governments over the past few years give me no reason to risk my life to help them.” JJ gave another quick smile. “Besides, you aren’t even offering me a salary.”

JJ watched and listened as Jules tried to rescue the conversation. He wished that there was something he could do to help his friend, the good commissaire, whose view of life was much less complex and thus filled with more certainty.

He could see Jules get an idea. The policeman stared directly at JJ. “Better to die on your feet than live forever on your knees.”

“I’m stunned that a Parisian policeman would quote a Spanish communist. La Pasionaria has a way with words, even if she nicked the phrase from Zapata, who borrowed it from someone else. But tell me, how’s it turning out for Republican Spain? Britain and France rushing to the aid of a democratically elected government, are they? No, I think not. But here’s another quote for you to consider. History has remembered the kings and warriors, because they destroyed; art has remembered the people, because they created. William Morris, if you’re interested. I’ll take art over governments, thanks.”

JJ stood up. “Thank you for the drink and the conversation. I regret that I cannot help. Mr Hyde, I wish you well. Are you heading back to London for Christmas?”

“No, I’m on my way to Lisbon, to take over the station there at the embassy.”

“Ah, sunshine and decent food. That must come close to being an Englishman’s idea of heaven. Best of luck.” Then, turning to his friend: “Jules, stay safe. Perhaps we can get together for New Year’s Eve?”

“Sadly, we’ll be in Rennes, for a large gathering of both sides of the family. Neither Normandy nor Angers. A compromise of sorts.”

“Ah well. À la prochaine.”

“Yes, until next time.” Jules responded with a slight smile and a very Gallic shrug.

JJ left to treat himself to a meal at La Rotonde, just off Boulevard Raspail on Boulevard du Montparnasse. After a meeting like that, a saucisse de Toulouse with potatoes, a salad and a proper Côtes du Rhone was an appealing thought. He considered another option: a grand plate of oysters, a mixed green salad, and his favourite Sancerre Blanc. These were the sort of decisions that he enjoyed making. With luck he might run into one of his artist friends with whom he could share a dinner conversation that covered more interesting topics than politics and foreign affairs. It was getting harder to have those conversations. Politics was starting to dominate everything, and his friends were dividing into two camps: stay and do something, or leave and get out of danger. Well, he thought, it’s not my fight. He stopped on the pavement outside the hotel, looked up and down the boulevard, and sighed. War was coming. His world would change again. Would any of this be here next year? No, JJ thought. Let it drop for now. It’s best to leave thinking about those sorts of things until after a well-prepared dinner.