Alain Christophe Baptiste, alleged Marquis, stepped back into the shadows of the alley nearby to a motorcar. It was not as if his papers were not in order, not as if his story wouldn't hold up, far from it. No, it simply might be most wise not to be seen in such a place at such a time if it could be helped. If not, he'd spilled a bit of wine on his jacket already, and was a known play-boy with contacts who would be less than happy were he deported to a work camp. Apparent bit of a party-happy socialite, or no, there were certainly those in high places who at the least found him...entertaining. And, of course, if all else failed, well, best to cross that bridge only when one must.
It seemed that the Nazis were moving people again. People were not terribly interesting, at least not insofar as such shipments. Nazis, in his estimation, only slightly moreso.
No, it was other shipments that would more concern him. Still, he'd have someone look into this. Even the mildly curious could be important, after all.
Delicately, he sniffed the wind. It stank of fear and desperation. That was certainly no surprise. He was glad that Justine was not with him tonight. He'd taken her dancing, of course, as promised, the night before, keeping business particularly short and unobtrusive. For him, this night, this place was simply a point between others, a short distraction on what was becoming an increasingly complex and frequent night time ramble.