The Ritz Hotel gleamed under the Parisian twilight, its chandeliers scattering light across the corridors like liquid crystal. Shane moved along the Persian-carpeted hallway, his dark grey Savile Row suit catching the mellow glow of the lamps. The faint rhythm of a waltz drifted from the dining room below, mingling with the scent of cigars and jasmine perfume.
Among the elegantly dressed guests approaching, a woman in a black tweed suit drew every gaze. A seven-strand pearl necklace rested upon her collarbone, shimmering softly with each step.
The gentleman beside her—slender, silver-haired, and wearing gold-rimmed glasses—paused at the sight of Shane. Surprise flickered in his eyes behind the lenses.
"Good evening, Mr. Cassidy," he greeted, doffing his hat with old-fashioned grace. "Edward Holt, International Editor-in-Chief of Harper's Bazaar."
Then, turning to his companion, his tone grew reverent. "Mademoiselle Coco, may I introduce Mr. Shane Cassidy—the young Irishman who devised the new cinema pre-sale system that London is raving about. The New York Times called it 'a revolution in film economics.'"
The woman turned, the camellia in her cropped hair catching the light. She extended a gloved hand.
"Coco Chanel," she said. "I hear your next film project is… unconventional."
Shane inclined his head, brushing her fingertips lightly. "In our age, even business must reinvent itself, Madame Chanel."
"Quite so," she replied, a half-smile curving her lips. "Yet some things never require reinvention." Her gloved finger brushed his lapel. "This hand-stitched edge, for example—no machine can capture such a curve. Don't you agree, Mr. Cassidy?"
Her remark was both compliment and test. Shane smiled faintly. "Perfection lies in the human touch, I suppose. The rest is just machinery."
Chanel's pearls trembled with her quiet laughter. "Then you understand fashion better than most men."
The elevator doors opened soundlessly. Shane stepped inside, nodding to them both as the doors closed. Edward Holt's murmured voice lingered in the air: "I heard Rex Club was once Pathé's… until Cassidy's offer turned the tide."
Chanel remained motionless, the light glinting on her pearls. Edward continued, half amused, "Pathé offered double the rent. Lefebvre still chose Gaumont—because Shane promised to premiere The Circus there."
Her gaze drifted to the polished brass doors of the elevator. "Interesting," she murmured, brushing her camellia once more. "Even Parisian theatres are changing their masters."
...
At 8:25 p.m., the air under the iron dome of Gare de l'Est hung heavy with coal smoke and steam. Shane and William Catterson walked across the granite platform, their polished leather shoes tapping crisply.
The evening Orient Express to Berlin hissed with impatience. The brass nameplate gleamed under the gaslight, and the carriages exhaled thin clouds of vapor into the night.
"Compartment Seven, right side," Catterson murmured, tapping the edge of the ticket. His eyes swept over the crowd—couples embracing, porters shouting, newsboys waving papers. One headline in Le Figaro read:
"The Circus Breaks Pre-Sale Records!"
"Is all the luggage secure?" Shane asked.
Catterson nodded. "Locked in the wardrobe. Mikhail telegraphed from Zurich—Dr. Krause checked into the lakeside hotel safely."
The locomotive let out a long, piercing whistle. The platform windows trembled. Shane looked once toward the glowing city before boarding.
The train began to move, the wheels finding their rhythm—steel on steel, a heartbeat of departure. The lights of Paris drifted backward until only the reflection of Shane's face remained in the glass. Ahead, Germany awaited beneath the warm spring night.
The Berlin Anhalter Bahnhof blazed under noon sunlight. Its iron-and-glass dome reflected the brilliance of a late spring day. Two men in dark suits waited by the platform, UFA company pins gleaming on their lapels.
"Mr. Cassidy," said the elder of the two, his English touched by a Berlin accent. "Fritz Lang, International Affairs, UFA." He gestured politely toward a waiting car. "We've prepared transport to the Hotel Adlon."
As they passed a massive Metropolis poster, Shane caught the eerie gleam of half-human, half-machine faces—an unsettling prophecy of cinema's future.
In the Hotel Adlon suite, the Brandenburg Gate stood framed in the window like a painting. Catterson inspected every corner, then retrieved the crocodile briefcase from the wardrobe. "Clean," he said quietly. "No listening devices."
Shane stood by the glass, his reflection overlapping with the gilded angel atop the Victory Column.
A bell rang. A waiter delivered a gilt-edged envelope. Inside, the embossed lettering read:
UFA cordially invites Mr. Shane Cassidy to a dinner reception at Charlottenburg Palace, hosted by General Manager Ludwig Kleeberg.
On the back, a faint pencil note: "Sample print of The Circus prepared in the screening room."
"They want to see our hand first," Shane murmured, tossing the invitation onto the desk. "Tell Mikhail to stand by in Zurich."
...
At 6:55 p.m., a black Mercedes-Benz Typ 630 glided to a halt before the Adlon. Shane and Catterson descended the marble stairs. In the lounge, two men pretended to read newspapers—one headline blared:
"Hollywood's New Wave of Colour Cinema."
"Kleeberg won't bend easily," Catterson whispered, fastening his cufflinks. "UFA has poured fortunes into its own tricolor experiments."
Shane checked his Patek Philippe. The enamel lion crest on its dial glowed faintly. On the case rim, the Latin inscription read: Per Ardua ad Astra — "Through struggle to the stars."
A gift from Louis Gaumont himself, pressed into Shane's hand after signing the Paris deal.
The watch hands pointed to half-past seven. Outside, Charlottenburg Palace burned gold in the sunset.
"Remember tonight's rule," Shane said as they entered the car. "We watch the play—we don't act in it."
The Mercedes turned onto Unter den Linden. Neon lights ignited the avenue, reflecting off the windows like streaks of fire. Above the Berlin Film Palace, the UFA logo pulsed in deep crimson, like the beating heart of Europe's cinematic empire.