marketer who had been useful to him and his colleagues in the Resistance. Eigen was not a political type, Ducroix had long ago concluded, but he was sympathetic, or at least trustworthy.
And Metcalfe needed Ducroix's help now. Since he would be leaving France by rail, under the name of Nicolas Mendoza, he would need departure documents issued by the Vichy government. And Ducroix was the only documents man in all of Paris who had paper of just the right weight and composition and who could reproduce the government seals and typography perfectly.
The Librairie Ducroix was located on the avenue de l'Opera. Its windows were an elegant stage set, a display of the stunningly beautiful books Alain Ducroix printed and bound by hand. Passersby would stop and marvel at the volumes bound in crimson morocco leather with raised bands on the spine and hand-applied gold leaf. Some were bound in calfskin or vellum, with hand-marbled papers, hand-sewn spines, the front and back boards ornamented with gold, red, and blind tooling, the edges gilded.
The only jarring note in the display windows was a small framed portrait of Marshal Petain, a sign beneath it that said: vendu sold out. This was a pun, a bitter joke: Petain had sold all of France out. Not a wise thing to put in his window, Metcalfe reflected. He would have to chide Ducroix. Given his important secret work, it was all the more vital that he keep his political beliefs cloaked.
Metcalfe pushed open the door. Bells mounted on the door jingled as he entered. The shop, which was crowded with tables and shelves stacked with volumes of poetry and belles lettres, some of them Ducroix's own publications, was deserted.
Not entirely empty, of course. "Ah, Daniel!" came a rich baritone from the back of the shop. "Where have you been?"
Ducroix, a handsome, stout man in his sixties with a shock of white hair, propelled his wheelchair with great speed from the back of the shop down the narrow center aisle. Although he had been paralyzed since the last war, he was a powerful, even athletic-looking man. His hands were large and callused, his forearms muscular.
Ducroix extended a hand and shook Metcalfe's hand firmly. "You have come to buy my new edition of Les Fleurs du Mai, nein? Yes, a good choice. The binding is in full black morocco, with red morocco doublures, the flyleaves hand-marbled. A beautiful volume, even if I say it myself. Not to speak of the typography "
"This picture of Petain in the window," Metcalfe interrupted.
"Yes," Ducroix chuckled. "The hero of Verdun, but I spit on him."
"Well, you'd better do your spitting in private. I'd take that little joke out of the window if I were you."
Ducroix shrugged. "D'accord," he said. He lowered his voice. "We shall talk in the back."
Metcalfe followed Ducroix through the shop and through a set of double doors into the cavernous stone-floored room that held the hand-operated letterpress, the mono caster that was used to cast type from molten lead, and the workbenches where Ducroix did his bookbinding.
As Metcalfe explained his needs, Ducroix nodded, his eyes closed in concentration. "Yes, yes," he said at last. "It is possible, yes. I may have a few of the blanks left; I will have to check. They are extremely difficult to obtain. I had to go to the manager of one of the larger Paris printing firms, who is an old friend. He does work for the government, so he had a stock of the blank forms. The official Ministry of Foreign Affairs seal I have cast myself in lead. But the typesetting I shall have to do on the Linotype machine, and it must be done most carefully to avoid detection. I mean, the border guards are a stupid lot, but every so often you come across a sharp one who looks carefully, and we do not want a catastrophe."
"No, that we don't," Metcalfe agreed.
"Perhaps I have been reading too much Baudelaire recently, but I keep thinking of what he says: "Il ny a pas de ha sard dans Vart, pas plus quen mecanique." The best art takes much work, yes? Not that I am a great artist, of course, but to do this kind of work right does require some artistry and much concentration. Alors!" He spun around, reached over to the bench behind him, and retrieved a slim volume from a stack. He handed it to Metcalfe.
"This, mon cher, is a gift for you. Racine's Phaedra. Perhaps you will