“You haven’t been very helpful, I’m afraid. And anyway the rules of the game have changed. I can’t help you. I no longer have the authority. The army is in charge now.” He raised that eyebrow again, and added a half-smile. “But I will have my secretary draw up a laissez-passer and a ticket on the night train to Marseille for you, leaving the Gare de Lyon at eight o’clock tonight.” He picked up the telephone receiver on his desk and instructed someone to prepare the documents. At the end of the call, Massu stood and gestured to the door. “Marseille is your best bet. Ships are still sailing out.”

“Not without an exit visa.”

“I’m sure you can arrange a crossing in Marseille.” I studied Massu’s face, twinkling with irony behind that ridiculous little mustache. Here was a man who seemed to take amusement in the messiness of life—as close to a definition of happiness as I know. He walked me to the door and opened it for me.

“Oh, one last thing,” he added. “Shéhérazade is also the name of a nightclub near Pigalle.” Before I could say anything else, he shook my hand. “Goodbye, monsieur, and bon voyage.”

I heard him chuckle as the door clicked shut.

Go here.

The Shéhérazade

“WELCOME TO THE SHÉHÉRAZADE!” boomed the old doorman from behind his silvery walrus mustache. He was the only sign of life on the otherwise darkened street. His Russian accent ricocheted off the paving stones and the walls of nearby buildings as he swung open the door to the nightclub. I stepped inside and down a flight of stairs into an Oriental fantasy world—part seraglio, part Aladdin’s cave—of arches, grottos, and drapes. A pall of tobacco smoke lent the light of the Arabian lamps an exotic haze. A solitary couple swayed on the dancefloor while on stage a gypsy band played, fronted by a singer in a long sequinned dress who waved her arms about in an approximation of languor.

“J’attendrai

le jour et

la nuit,

J’attendrai toujours

ton retour…”

She was accompanied by two guitarists and a double bass player. I removed my hat, sat at the bar, and ordered a calvados. This place had been fashionable once, I thought, looking around—in the heady years after the last war, the war to end all wars. When the calvados arrived I tipped the barman well and said, “I’m looking for Madeleine Blanc.”

“Never heard of her.”

“Sure you have. Oriental features, beautiful, in her forties. Any idea how I can get in touch with her?”

“Who’s asking?”

“Koahu.”