The lazy afternoon sun slanted across the weathered façade of the Rex Club, tracing gold along the Art Deco reliefs carved into its stone exterior.
A Rolls-Royce Phantom, freshly polished to a mirror sheen, waited by the side entrance, its deep navy finish catching glimmers of light and shadow.
Inside the manager's office, Jacques Lefevre sat behind a mahogany desk. On it rested a crystal ashtray, sunlight refracting through its facets. A half-smoked Cuban cigar lay there, its ash perfectly formed, a dim ember glowing red at the tip. The air was thick with the rich, earthy aroma of tobacco.
"Pathé sent someone this morning," Lefevre said, dabbing at his forehead with a silk handkerchief. The heat of the Paris afternoon left a faint sheen of sweat at his temples. "They offered double the deposit to get The Hunchback of Notre Dame released two weeks early…"
His voice trailed off, the oppressive heat seeming to melt his resolve.
Across the room, Shanestood near the window. His eyes drifted to a framed still from Gismonda on the wall — Alphonse Mucha's famous 1896 lithograph. Sarah Bernhardt, crowned in orchids and swathed in gold, gazed regally from the print, like a Byzantine empress enthroned above time.
Shane brushed a fleck of dust from the frame with deliberate care. "Mr. Lefevre," he said evenly, the sunlight falling across his crisp linen suit, "Ms. Bernhardt conquered Paris not by aligning herself with anyone, but by drawing everyone toward her. Every gesture, every pause — the whole city seemed to adjust itself to her rhythm."
He turned, meeting Lefevre's uncertain eyes. "She didn't follow trends. She was the trend. So, tell me — what will your choice be?"
The telephone on the desk suddenly rang — a sharp, metallic clang that shattered the thick silence. The brass hammer rattled against its cradle, scattering a halo of dust across the polished wood.
Lefevre hesitated for a heartbeat before lifting the receiver. His face changed — surprise, confusion, then disbelief. Wordlessly, he handed the receiver to Shane.
"Shane, listen—" came Louis's voice from the other end, faintly distorted by distance and the hum of machinery. The background roar of a rotary printing press made the line sound like a train rushing through a tunnel. "We've bought out the bottom corner of tomorrow's Le Matin front page — fifteen centimetres of blank space, right above the fold. Durand's furious. He's holding back Pathé's press release until someone convinces him that Chaplin's got a French connection worth printing!"
A burst of French shouting echoed faintly — papers slapping, a chair scraping across the floor.
Shane's fingers brushed the warm receiver, still slick from Lefevre's nervous grip. "What about the other first-run theatres?" His voice remained calm.
"The Olympia, the Royal Palace, and the Champs-Élysées Theatre have all signed," Louis replied rapidly. "Only the Rex Club is holding out."
Shane turned toward Lefevre. His tone softened, but his words carried steel. "Mr. Lefevre, we'll double Pathé's offer."
The manager flushed crimson, his eyes darting toward the ashtray. "It's not about the money…" he murmured, though the weakness in his voice betrayed him.
Shane ignored the protest and spoke into the receiver again. "Louis, bring the cash here by seven tomorrow morning."
A brief pause followed — only the relentless churning of the printing press could be heard.
"The money isn't the issue," Louis said carefully. "But Durand still wants—"
"I'll handle Durand," Shane interrupted. "Act now."
He replaced the receiver with deliberate precision. Silence reclaimed the room, save for the faint crackle of the cigar's ember.
"Mr. Lefevre," Shane said evenly, "at seven-thirty tomorrow morning, I'll return with everything you desire."
He straightened his cuffs and stepped toward the door. Sunlight poured through the glass panels, glinting off the mosaic-tiled floor in geometric black and white.
As he exited, the rhythmic click of his leather shoes echoed against the marble. A startled waiter polishing a brass handrail turned sharply as Shane passed.
Outside, Mikhail waited by the Phantom, flicking away a cigarette. The metallic snap of his gold lighter closing matched the mechanical click of the car door opening.
"To the Central Post Office on Rue Saint-Honoré," Shane said as he settled into the seat. The soft rustle of fine leather followed his movement. "Take the Tuileries route."
He checked his Patek Philippe wristwatch — 2:51 p.m. The sunlight caught the enamel dial, throwing a warm gleam across the face.
The Central Post Office of Paris loomed cool and cavernous. Shane's reflection shimmered on the polished marble floor as he strode through the hall, turning into the right-hand corridor.
He entered the third telephone booth, picked up the receiver, and began dialling swiftly. The rotary dial clicked with each turn, ten rotations in total. A faint hum — the distant murmur of a transatlantic line — filled the booth.
Then came the unmistakable voice of Charlie Chaplin, light, amused, and unmistakably British.
"Ah, Mr. Cassidy! To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Forgive the intrusion, Mr. Chaplin," Shane said warmly. "I need you to recall a small Parisian memory — something from long ago."
A pause. The faint hiss of static, then Chaplin's soft chuckle.
"Paris... yes, that must've been 1911 — or perhaps 1912? I went at the invitation of an old theatre friend from London. Performed at the Folies Bergère for a month. Terribly charming place. The French girls adored my hat and cane routine!"
He laughed lightly, then added in a more nostalgic tone, "And Debussy's Pierrot Lunaire — my word, I could hardly manage the French lines. The audience forgave me, bless them."
Shane's fountain pen paused mid-note, a small blot spreading across the paper. "Were there any press interviews covering that performance?"
"Press interviews… ah yes! Le Figaro, I believe. A critic named Rémy — or Raymond? The fellow with that ridiculous goatee. Wrote quite a flattering piece, as I recall."
A faint smile crossed Shane's face. Through the glass, he saw Mikhail waiting outside the booth, holding a freshly delivered telegram.
"Mr. Chaplin," Shane said smoothly, "tomorrow, Paris will remember that it once embraced a genius British film poet."
Chaplin chuckled again. "Speaking of geniuses — you've sent Hollywood into an uproar. Your ticket pre-sale system has every studio talking! Variety called it the greatest innovation since Edison's projector."
Shane's eyes drifted upward to the stained-glass ceiling, where sunlight scattered in soft hues across the marble walls. Nearby, a clerk with round spectacles was carefully inscribing entries into a leather-bound ledger.
"Fox and MGM have already adopted your system," Chaplin continued. "Fairbanks told me that young Rockefeller's secretary came by yesterday — they're putting two million dollars into a company just to copy your idea!"
A pause, followed by a low chuckle. "If you ask me, what you should worry about isn't the French press, but the bankers. Word is, the men at Goldman Sachs are already trying to find out who 'that Irish boy' really is."
Shane's expression didn't change, though his gaze deepened. "Then," he said quietly, "let's give them something worth finding."
He hung up the receiver. The dial clicked back into place, and the hum of the line faded into silence.
Pushing open the booth door, Shane stepped out into the golden light of late afternoon — the moment when Paris, like a reel of film, shimmered between shadow and silver.