Read Online The Siren of Paris by David Leroy - Free Book Online

took notice of the artwork that he had placed on the walls of his badger den. Goering stopped mid-sentence with Mr. Wells and walked towards Marc.
    “Marc, it is amazing, but I must confess to you that I don’t believe it is an original,” Goering said to him in the hallway.
    “How can you tell?”
    “It is too clean and neat. Over in America you may not know this but, in Europe, art students would study by copying originals. Often, their work exceeded that of the artist.”
    “I had no idea.”
    “Do you think there is anything you can do about the situation?” Mr. Wells said, attempting to recapture Goering’s attention.
    “There is nothing that can be done. Our air power is superior to all of Europe combined. They are lunatics you know.”
    “They are just attempting to defend themselves from what they perceive as an aggressor.”
    “I was not referring to the French or British. Marc, there are several artists living in Paris you should take note of and, if you can, try to collect. Have you met Picasso yet? I know his work is degenerate, but it is superbly degenerate and that must be admired. I would smuggle some, but you must understand my circumstances.”

Chapter 9
    T he train approached the border of Belgium and, after customs, it continued on toward France. Marc felt a wave of relaxation come over him as the train left Germany. Sumner Wells barely spoke on the train to Paris. He did not pore over notes or obsess over details. Marc’s mind gradually reflected upon the trip.
    “It is strange,” Marc said, staring out the window.
    “What?”
    “In Italy, we only had to meet one person, and that person was the head of state.”
    “Yes.”
    “But in Germany, we met four, including Hitler.”
    “You are very observant, Marc.”
    “And, I am still uncertain of who exactly is in charge of Germany.”
    “You have read my thoughts,” Sumner Wells said as he turned back to Marc from the window. “You should return with me to America. When we get back into Paris, call the Italian Line and let them know,” Sumner Wells said casually.
    “I see, just like that? Who will run the travel desk at the embassy?”
    Sumner Wells did not respond. He continued to look out the window as the landscape passed by. The train steward came by and offered drinks.
    “Yes, please,” Wells grunted. “Make it two,” as he looked at Marc. “I just believe it is a good idea to leave. Have you thought about working in diplomacy? You did very well,” he said, his voice even, without ever looking at Marc.
    “Has this been helpful to you?” He turned to Sumner as he stared out the window, lost in his Scotch. “Mr. Wells, was it helpful to have me along, as a citizen of both France and the United States, in these meetings?”
    “Yes, of course, but Marc,” and after a long pause Sumner said, “they are beyond all help.”
    An hour later, Sumner had several drinks down. “Is there anything else that I should know about before we get back to Paris?” Marc asked.
    “Only that you had met several assembly members and the premier before the trip, and will meet them privately after this trip,” he said, his words somewhat slurred, “but don’t worry. It does not matter. It is just the story we floated. But …” He paused and then never finished his sentence.
    “What about others? Do you think I could call the Italian Line and get passage for others?” Marc asked.
    “You can try, but I doubt it. I think I have played my cards and lost. Actually, they are the ones who have lost,” he said.
    Marc had to help him walk when they arrived in Paris.
    “There he is,” Marc heard as he reached the platform with Sumner.
    “Grandpa, Grandpa! You are so ill,” the man said dramatically, and Marc recognized him as Bullitt—in disguise.
    “So good to see you, my son.” The nun kissed Marc on his head and drew in close to him, taking the cane away to hide in her smock. “His fever is very high, so very sick.” She spoke