Last Train to Paris (7 page)

Oh, Stella! I thought, what have you done? With a sense of dread I rolled up the newspaper and put it in my pocket.

As soon as I was halfway up the stairs of the newsroom, I was assaulted by the awful smell of stale cigarette smoke, mixed with old food and the humidity of the summer. I wanted to turn around and go home. It was only nine in the morning and already I could feel sweat meandering down my back.

“Hey, R.B.,” one of the reporters said. “Looks like you're our gal for the most melodramatic story of the year. Of course,” he added, laughing, “now you can be assured of a long-running serial—just like the funny papers.”

“Count me out,” I said. “I have to be in Berlin next week. The news is getting seriously grim. Yeah, I know,” I teased, “I know, it won't sell papers. No one wants to hear the truth.”

“You might be right, R.B. But you'll have to tell it to Ramsey. He's in charge.” He pointed with his thumb over his shoulder toward the glass wall of the office. Ramsey was rolling a cigar in his mouth, shouting into the phone, and beckoning to me at the same time.

“So, Rosie, what do you think of the
Times
story?” Ramsey asked in his raspy voice.

“I told you not to call me ‘Rosie,' Mr. Ramsey,” I said, trying to give myself some space to think.

“What's the matter, kid?” Ramsey asked. “You look as if you've been hit with a baseball bat.”

“Nothing Mr. Ramsey, nothing, just thinking.”

Was Bobby Hunter the kidnapper? Would I be able to give the police a description of the guy? Was this another of Stella's dramatic moments?

I had to be careful. I couldn't be assigned this story. It wasn't ethical. I had always avoided conflicts of interest, real or perceived. But then, what was more important—upholding the standards of journalism or finding my cousin? I voted for my cousin.

“Mr. Ramsey,” I said, “you know it's not my kind of thing. Why assign this story to me?”

“For good reasons, kid. One's that the bosses in Chicago are complaining that your Berlin stories are getting too tough on the Reich. They think you need a break. And since it's about Jews, I thought you'd know how to approach the situation, you know what I mean?”

“No, I don't know what you mean,” I said.

“For Christ's sake, Rosie—excuse the pun—you look like a Jew.”

“I told you not to call me ‘Rosie,' and anyway, you're wrong,” I said. “I'm not a Jew.”

“C'mon, kid, calm down. If you declare you're not a Jew, I'll accept it, but I don't believe you.”

“But—” I tried to interrupt.

“Anyway,” Ramsey butted in, “you have more imagination than anyone else in this newsroom.”

I sat on my hands to remind myself not to react.

“Disappearances are the best,” Ramsey said as if he were offering me a gift. “The higher-ups will be happy. Great for circulation. Perhaps you'll find her yourself! Just don't get fancy-dancy with your writing.

“Be careful,” Ramsey cautioned. “You have to be sure not to mention that she's a Jew.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Don't be stupid, kid. Our readers want news about a young, sexy, beautiful American actress, not some Yid dame.”

‘But,' I said, ‘her name is Mair, and her aunt's name's Silverman. They're both Jewish names.'

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Ramsey said, “but people won't know the difference between a kike name and a kraut one. They all sound alike. So, this is the deal. If you refuse to cover it, I'll post you to China. That's what the main office wants. They say you're our best and they want to spread you around a bit. China will give you a shot at using your high and mighty Mandarin. Lot of war going on there. You'll love it. The Japs are fighting the Chinks and they need a hotshot correspondent. So, how 'bout it?”

I looked away from his ugliness.

“Jeez, anyway, it's a better story than the constant whining from those Yids about what's happening in Germany. If you ask me, they're getting what's coming to them from Herr Hitler.”

Oh, how I detested him.

But I wasn't ready to lose my job—or go to China. I wanted to get back to Berlin and Leon.

“Mr. Ramsey, I can't cover this story. Stella Mair's my cousin.”

“Your cousin!” he yelled, and I could see all the heads turning in our direction. “Then you're a . . . I knew it!”

“Calm down, Mr. Ramsey,” I said between clenched teeth, my hands in fists. “Whatever I am, it's none of your goddamned business.”

Ramsey sat down at his desk. All I wanted to do was to sock him in his wine-soaked, pockmarked nose.

“I propose,” I calmly said, sitting down in front of his desk, “that Andy cover the story. I'll feed him inside information. But when it's over,” I emphasized, “I want my Berlin beat back.”

Ramsey leaned back in his chair with a smirk on his face.

“It's a deal, kid.”

 

All these years later, I still wonder how I kept myself from punching Ramsey. I'm amazed. After all, I had slapped Stella. I guess I was afraid he would hit me back. If it happened today I would have reported him to a union official, and he, most likely, would be fired. And today, I wouldn't have hesitated to let him know I was Jewish. But back then—well, things were different.

 

Clara looked godawful. Her skin had turned yellow; her eyes were rimmed with red.

“Oh, Rosie, I'm glad you're here. I wanted to call you when Stella went missing last night but the police wouldn't let me contact anyone associated with the newspapers. Isn't this terrible? Do you think you can help?”

“I'll try, Aunt Clara. Let's sit down and you can start at the beginning. I have to take notes. The story's been assigned to my colleague, Andy Roth, who's a very nice man and a good reporter. But I'll interview you. I hope you understand that it would be unethical for me to cover the story.”

“Of course I understand,” she said.

“So, what happened this time?” I asked, unable to keep the rancor out of my voice.

“Stella told me that she was going to lunch with Mr. Hunter and would be back in time for the opera. I believed her. But she didn't come home and I could sense that this time was different. So I called the police. I knew that she had five hundred dollars in American Express traveler's cheques, her passport, her Exposition card, and an expensive camera. Why did she take all this with her? The police are convinced that she took everything on purpose. I don't know anymore what's going on. She promised me!”

 

A feature story had been cobbled together by ten that evening. Because Andy had been drinking, I quietly helped him write it. While we were working on it, we laughed at the idea that he was a bit inflated with the possibility of writing himself into history.

 

Andy reminded me of my father. He was a tall, skinny man with a very big heart and no idea what to do with it. I had met him in New York at the newspaper and liked him immediately. When he was overwhelmed by an emotional crisis, he'd take off on a long drunk—like my father. But when he wasn't drinking, he would be reading—also like my father. Indeed, I depended on him for books. His taste in literature was sophisticated. Even the penny novels he read were well written. I liked Andy, and I liked the way we could be friends without the silly boy-girl business intruding. I didn't like his wife, Ruby, though—and couldn't understand her attraction to such an egghead.

 

‘Hey, Ros–R.B.,' Ramsey said. ‘What's all this literary crap?' And he dismissively tossed our story on the desk. ‘This isn't a goddamned publishing house. Take out the flowery adjectives, or I'll give it to one of the copy editors to clean up.' I wasn't about to confront Ramsey about acceptable styles of writing. Andy had disappeared. I went to a café next door and edited.

Five hours later: “Front page, smack on the top,” Ramsey said. “It's perfect! Right next to the news that the Fascists are bombing Madrid.”

I have to admit that I got a kick out of scooping the other newspapers. Also, it didn't hurt that Andy's story was the leading one—the first column on the right side, with his byline.

But the other side of me, the side I couldn't show to anybody, was hurting. My cousin was missing, and I felt responsible. If only I had interrupted her meeting with Hunter the first time I saw them together.

I returned to the Hôtel Espoir. Walking upstairs, I ran into Madame Pleven, who reeked of onions.

“Been cooking, Madame?” I said. “Smells like your famous stew.”

“Yes, my dear, we're celebrating our thirty-fifth anniversary tonight. But I've just come from helping Andy. He's ‘sick' again.”

Andy was passed out on his bed. There was no rousing him.

 

I turned around and walked to the rue du Vieux-Colombier to see Clara. She was downstairs in the lobby speaking with a man and twisting a handkerchief on her lap. “Oh, Rosie, I'm so glad you're here. I'd like you to meet Inspector Pascal of the
Préfecture
de Police
. He's in charge of the investigation.”

Pascal was a short man with a belly that looked solid. His face, with its piercing blue eyes, was framed by white hair that was so thin that you could see his pink scalp. His manner was perfect for a detective: enigmatic—hard to describe. He was wearing a rumpled brown suit with a stained, ochre-colored tie, a bit askew, and brightly polished brown shoes.

“Inspector, this is my niece, Rose Manon. She's a reporter on the
Paris Courier
.”

“Good to meet you, Miss Manon. I've haven't seen you around before. Are you new? No,” he answered himself. “You're the reporter from Berlin whose columns are translated in
Paris Soir
, but you go by R.B
.
”

“Yes, sir, that's right,” I said. “I'm researching Stella Mair's disappearance. As you've most likely figured out, she's my cousin.”

The inspector whistled. “My god,” he said. “This must be very hard for you.”

“Yes, it is,” I said.

I told Pascal about seeing Stella with Bobby Hunter. I gave him a description.

“Your description's helpful, as was Miss Silverman's,” the inspector said. “Now I wonder if you would do me a favor and work with our staff artist at the police station. Would that be okay with you, Miss Silverman?” he asked. “I don't want to make you come to headquarters—anyway, you need to stay here in case there's an attempt to contact you.”

“Of course,” she said.

“Miss Manon,” he continued, “perhaps we can get a good portrait of Hunter. If so, we'll place it with all the newspapers in France.” I looked at him and smiled. “Okay,” the inspector said. “I'll release it to the
Courier
six hours before the rest.”

We went to the police station. The task wasn't easy. I struggled to describe Hunter. First, the artist tried drawing him straight on. That didn't work. Then he tried drawing him in profile. That didn't work. Then he tried drawing all the parts of his face separately. But when we assembled the pieces on an illustration board, the portrait still wasn't right. Mr. Hunter had a deceptive face. We had to settle on a composition that I felt was inadequate.

 

“Listen, Mr. Ramsey,” I said when I returned to the newsroom, “Andy's still sick, but he gave me this report.”

“Read it to me, don't have my glasses. But, listen to me, R.B., you better tell Andy that if he doesn't show his face here by tomorrow, I'll assign this plum to someone else.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, and began reading aloud. “The clues have begun to pile up, as have the false leads. Once yesterday's article was published with Stella's description, she's been reported as having been seen everywhere in Paris. A headwaiter at a fancy restaurant saw her lunching with a famous Italian athlete. A psychic said she saw her in a trance by the Seine. And a man, who said he was a Russian prince in exile, rang Miss Mair's aunt five times at the hotel to announce that Stella was dead. The leads were all checked out and were found to be false.”

“Put it at the top of Andy's story for tomorrow's edition,” Ramsey said. “It's a good kicker.”

A good kicker! I thought. Ramsey's really a gossipmonger at heart. He should be managing a tabloid.

Although I thought that Ramsey was a ridiculous man, he was as treacherous as a hyena. Sometimes I would work downstairs in a corner of the Linotype room, just so I didn't have to hear him expostulate. I was still the only female on the staff and most of the men were terribly sweet to me. Besides Ramsey, the ones who gave me the hardest time were the pup reporters. All male—all full of themselves—and all competing for a byline. I hope I wasn't that way. But I do think that I still came across as a tough broad.

 

The next day Andy appeared at my door looking terrible. “Sorry, R.B., for letting you down. Let's walk over to the office together. It'll do me good to get some air.”

We checked in with Ramsey. “The police,” Ramsey said, “have found a badly forged American Express traveler's cheque for a hundred bucks. The description of the check casher was a dashingly handsome man. He showed Stella Mair's Exposition card for identification.”

“But Stella's a woman,” Andy protested. “How did he get away with that?”

“A stupid salesgirl,” Ramsey said. “Along with this guy being so suave and good looking. Probably put his thumb over ‘Stella.'”

I had to sit down. “This means that Stella must be dead. I've got to go to my aunt.”

“No, R.B.,” Andy said. “There could be something else going on here—this doesn't mean she's dead.”

“Yeah, it probably does,” Ramsey said. “But, well—I guess she could have gone off on a toot, looking for publicity,” he added and grinned. “Naw, she's kaput and we know it. Now the story's got to be about the manhunt for this guy Bobby Hunter and finding Stella's body. So get to it, Andy. And you, R.B., I want part of the story to be about your aunt's reaction.”