Arriving at Paris’s Gare de l’Est in the late afternoon, I presented my taxi warrant to a wurst-faced NCO, who directed me to a military car already occupied by another officer. Petrol was scarce, and since we were to be billeted in the same hotel across the river, we were obliged to share a driver, an SS corporal from Essen who attempted to forestall our impatience at getting to the hotel by warning us that the speed limit was only forty kph.

“And it’s worse at night,” he added. “Then it’s just thirty. Which is really crazy.”

“Surely it’s safer that way,” I said. “Because of the blackout.”

“No, sir,” said the corporal. “Nighttime is when this city comes alive. That’s when people really want to get somewhere. Somewhere important.”

“Like where?” asked my brother officer, a naval lieutenant who was attached to the Abwehr—German military intelligence. “For example?”

The driver smiled. “This is Paris, sir. There’s only one business of real importance here, sir. Or so you might think from the number of staff officers I drive to their liaisons, sir. The only business in Paris that’s doing better than ever before, sir, is the business of male and female relations, sir. In a word, prostitution. This city is rife with it. And you’d think some of these Germans coming here have never seen a girl before, the way they go at it.”

“Good God,” exclaimed the Abwehr lieutenant, whose name was Kurt Boger.

“There will be plenty of German reinforcements on the way soon,” said the driver. “Little Germans, that is. My advice to you both is to find yourselves a nice little girlfriend and get it for free. But if you’re short of time, the best brothels in the city are Maison Chabanais, at number twelve rue Chabanais, and the One Twenty-two on rue de Provence.”

“I heard the Fairyland was good,” I said.

“No, that’s rubbish, sir. With all due respect. Whoever told you that is talking out of their arse. The Fairyland is a real knocking shop. You want to keep away from there, sir, in case you wind up with a dose of jelly. If you’ll forgive me for saying so. Maison Chabanais is for officers only. The madame, Mademoiselle Marthe, runs a very classy house.”

Boger, hardly a typical sailor, was tutting loudly and shaking his head.

“But you’ll be all right at the Hôtel Lutetia,” said the driver, changing the subject. “It’s a very respectable hotel. There’s nothing going on there.”

“I’m relieved to hear it,” said Boger.

“All of the best hotels have been taken over by us Germans,” said the driver. “The general staff with red stripes on their trousers and the party big guns are at the Majestic and the Crillon. But I reckon you’re both better off here on the left bank.”