Night Rounds (2 page)

"A GAME
of blind man's buff?" "Fine idea!" "We won't need blindfolds." "It's dark enough." "You're it, Odicharvi!" "Scatter, everyone!"

They're tiptoeing about. You can hear them open the closet door. They're probably going to hide there. It sounds as if they're creeping around the desk. The floor's creaking. Someone's bumping into a piece of furniture. Someone else's profile is silhouetted against the window. Screams of laughter. Sighs. Frantic gestures. They must be running in all directions. "I've got you, Baruzzi!"

"Tough luck, I'm Helder." "Who's there?" "Guess!" "Rosenheim?" "No." "Costachesco?" "No." "Give up?"

"We'll arrest them tonight," declares the Khedive. "The Lieutenant and every member of the ring.
EVERY LAST ONE
. Those people are sabotaging our work."

"You still haven't given us Lamballe's address," murmurs Mr. Philibert. "When are you going to make up your mind, son? Come on now…"

"Give him a chance, Pierrot."

Suddenly the lights are on. They blink their eyes. There they are around the desk. "I'm parched." "Let's have a drink, friends, a drink!" "A song, Baruzzi, a song!" "
Il était un petit navire
." "Go on, Baruzzi, g o on!" "
Qui n'avait ja-ja-ja-ja-mais navigué
…"

"Want to see my tattoos?" inquires Frau Sultana. She rips open her blouse. On each breast is a ship's anchor. Baroness Lydia Stahl and Violette Morris push her to the floor and finish undressing her. She struggles, eludes their embrace, and, giggling and squealing, entices them on. Violette Morris chases her across the living room where Zieff is sucking on a chicken wing in a corner. "Nothing like a tasty bite now that rationing is here to stay. Do you know what I just did? Stood in front of the mirror and plastered my face with pâté de foie gras! Foie gras at fifteen thousand francs a scoop!" (He bursts out laughing.) "Another cognac?" offers Pols de Helder. "You can't get it any more. A half-pint sells for a hundred
thousand francs. English cigarettes? I get them direct from Lisbon. Twenty thousand francs a pack."

"One of these days they'll address me as Police Commissioner," the Khedive announces crisply. And his gaze freezes into a vacant stare.

"To the Commissioner's health!" shouts Lionel de Zieff. He staggers and collapses onto the piano. The glass has slipped from his hand. Mr. Philibert thumbs through a dossier along with Paulo Hayakawa and Baruzzi. The Chapochnikoff brothers busy themselves around the victrola. Simone Bouquereau gazes at herself in the mirror.

Die Nacht

Die Musik

Und dein Mund

hums Baroness Lydia, doing a vague little dance step.

"Anyone for a session of sexuo-divine paneurhythmics?" whinnies Ivanoff the Oracle in his studhorse tenor.

The Khedive eyes them mournfully. "They'll address me as Commissioner." His voice rises sharply: "Police Commissioner!" He hammers his fist on the desk. The others pay no attention to this outburst. He gets up and opens the left-hand window a little. "Come sit here, my boy, I like to have you around. Such a sensitive fellow. So receptive. You soothe my nerves."

Zieff is snoring on the piano. The Chapochnikoff brothers
have stopped playing the victrola. They are examining the vases of flowers one by one, straightening an orchid, stroking the petals of a dahlia. Now and then they turn and dart frightened glances at the Khedive. Simone Bouquereau seems fascinated by her face in the mirror. Her violet eyes widen, her skin slowly turns ashen pale. Violette Morris has taken a seat on the velvet sofa next to Frau Sultana. The palms of their white hands lie open to Ivanoff's scrutiny.

"The price of tungsten has gone up," Baruzzi announces. "I can get you a good deal on it. I'm on the best of terms with Guy Max in the purchasing office on Rue Villejust."

"I thought he only handled textiles," says Mr. Philibert. "He's changed his line," says Hayakawa. "Sold all of his stock to Macias-Reoyo."

"Maybe you'd rather have hides?" asks Baruzzi. "Calfskins have gone up a hundred francs."

"Odicharvi mentioned three tons of worsted he wants to get rid of. I thought of you, Philibert."

"How about thirty-six thousand decks of cards I can have delivered to you by morning? You'll get the top price for them. Now's the time. They launched their
Schwerpunkt
attack at the beginning of the month."

Ivanoff is examining the Marquise's palm.

"Quiet!" shouts Violette Morris. "The Oracle is reading her future. Quiet!"

"What do you think of that, son?" the Khedive asks me.

"Ivanoff rules the women with a rod. His famous lighter-than-iron rod! They can't do without him. Mystics, dear boy. And he thrives on it! The old clown!"

He rests his elbows on the edge of the balcony. Below, there's one of those tranquil squares you find in the
16
th
arrondissement
. The street lights cast an odd blue glow on the foliage and the music pavilion. "Did you know, son, before the war the house we're in used to belong to M. de Bel-Respiro." (His voice sounds hollow.) "I found some letters in a closet that he wrote his wife and children. A real family man. Look, there he is." He points to a life-sized portrait hanging between the two windows. "M. de Bel-Respiro himself in his Algerian Spahi officer's uniform. With all those decorations! There's a model Frenchman for you!"

"A square mile of rayon?" offers Baruzzi. "You can have it dirt cheap. Five tons of crackers? The freight cars are tied up a t the Spanish border. You won't have any trouble getting an exit pass. I'm only asking a small commission, Philibert."

The Chapochnikoff brothers slink around the Khedive, not daring to speak to him. Zieff is asleep with his mouth open. Frau Sultana and Violette Morris hang on Ivanoff's every word: astral flux … sacred pentagram … grains of sustenance from the Earth Mother … great telluric waves … incantatory paneurhythmics … Betelgeuse … But Simone Bouquereau presses her forehead up against the mirror.

"I'm not interested in any of these financial deals," Mr. Philibert cuts in.

Disappointed, Baruzzi and Hayakawa tango their way over to Lionel de Zieff's chair and pat his shoulder to waken him. Mr. Philibert thumbs through a dossier, pencil in hand.

"You see, my dear boy," the Khedive resumes (really, he looks as if he's on the verge of tears), "I've had no education. I was alone when they buried my father and I spent the night on his grave. It was bitter cold, too, that night. At fourteen, the prison colony at Eysses … penal battalion, overseas … Fresnes prison … No chance to meet decent people, just washouts like myself … Life ..."

"Wake up, Lionel!" shouts Hayakawa.

"We've got something important to tell you," adds Baruzzi.

"We'll get you fifteen thousand trucks and two tons of nickel for a
15
per cent commission." Zieff blinks his eyes and mops his forehead with a light-blue handkerchief. "Anything you say, as long as I can cram my belly full of it. Don't you think I've filled out nicely these last two months? Feels good, now that rationing is here to stay." He lumbers over to the sofa and slides his hand into Frau Sultana's blouse. She struggles and slaps him as hard as she can. Ivanoff sneers faintly. "Anything you say, boys," Zieff repeats in a grating voice. "Anything you say." "O.K. for tomorrow morning, Lionel?" asks Hayakawa.

"Can I confirm it with Schiedlausky? We'll throw in a carload of rubber as a bonus."

Sitting at the piano, Mr. Philibert pensively fingers a few notes.

"Still, my boy," resumes the Khedive, "I've always hungered for respectability. Please don't confuse me with the people here …

Simone Bouquereau is putting on her make-up in front of the mirror. Violette Morris and Frau Sultana have closed their eyes. The Oracle, apparently, is invoking the stars. The Chapochnikoff brothers hover around the piano. One of them is winding up the métronome, another hands a sheet of music to Mr. Philibert.

"Take Lionel de Zieff," whispers the Khedive. "What I couldn't tell you about that swindler! and about Baruzzi! or Hayakawa! Every last one of them! Ivanoff a filthy blackmailer! Baroness Lydia Stahl is a highpriced whore!"

Mr. Philibert leafs through the music. From time to time he drums out the rhythm. The Chapochnikoff brothers glance at him fearfully.

"So you see, my boy," the Khedive continues, "all the rats have profited from recent 'events' to come out into the open. I myself … But that's another story.

Don't trust appearances. Before long I'll be inviting the most respectable people in Paris into this living room. They'll address me as Commissioner!
POLICE COMMISSIONER
, get that?" He turns around and points to the life-sized portrait. "There I am! A Spahi officer! Look at those decorations! Legion of Honor. Cross of the Holy Sepulcher. Cross of St. George of Russia. Order of Danilo de Monténégro, Portugal's Tower and Sword. Why should I envy M. de Bel-Respiro? I'll have him dangling on a string!"

He clicks his heels.

Sudden silence.

That's a waltz Philibert is playing. The cascade of notes pauses hesitantly, unfolds, and gushes over the dahlias and the orchids. Mr. Philibert sits very straight. His eyes are closed.

"Hear that, my boy?" asks the Khedive. "Look at those hands! Pierre can play for hours without letting up. Never gets cramps. An artist!"

Frau Sultana's head is nodding a little. The opening chords have roused her from her apathy. Violette Morris gets up and waltzes, with icy composure, the length of the living room. Paulo Hayakawa and Baruzzi have stopped talking. The Chapochnikoff brothers listen with mouths agape. Even Zieff seems hypnotized by Mr. Philibert's hands as they begin racing over the keyboard. Ivanoff, chin outstretched, scans the ceiling. But Simone Bouquereau finishes putting on her make-up in the Venetian mirror, as if nothing had happened.

He strikes the chords with all of his strength, bending low over the keys, his eyes shut. His playing becomes more and more impassioned.

"Like it, son?" asks the Khedive.

Mr. Philibert has slammed the piano shut. He rises, rubbing his hands, and walks toward the Khedive. After a pause:

"We just nailed someone, Henri. Passing out leaflets. We caught him in the act. Breton and Reocreux are going over him in the cellar."

The others are still stunned by the stifled waltz: silent and motionless, magnetized by the music.

"I was talking to him about you, Pierre," murmurs the Khedive. "Telling him that you're a sensitive chap, a melomaniac in a class by yourself, an artist …"

"Thanks, Henri. It's true, but I hate big words. You should have told him I'm a policeman, first and last."

"Number One cop in France! According to a cabinet minister!"

"That was long ago, Henri."

"In those days, Pierre, I would have been afraid of you. Inspector Philibert! Wow! When I'm police commissioner, I'll make you my chief deputy."

"Shut up!"

"Still love me?"

A scream. Then two. Then three. Piercing. Mr. Philibert glances at his watch. "Three quarters of an hour already. He must be ready to break. I'll go see." The Chapochnikoff brothers trail after him. The others, apparently, heard nothing.

"You're gorgeous," says Paulo Hayakawa to Baroness Lydia, offering her a glass of champagne. "Really?" Frau Sultana and Ivanoff are gazing into each other's eyes. Baruzzi sneaks up behind Simone Bouquereau, but Zieff trips him. Baruzzi topples a vase of dahlias as he falls. "Out to play the ladies' man? Not going to pay attention any more to his nice big Lionel?" He bursts out laughing and fans himself with his light-blue handkerchief.

"It's the fellow they picked up," murmurs the Khedive, "the one who was handing out leaflets. They're working on him. He won't last, son. Want to see him?" "To the Khedive's health!" shouts Lionel de Zieff. "To Inspector Philibert's!" adds Paulo Hayakawa, stroking the Baroness' neck. A scream. Then two. A sob that lingers on.

"Talk or die!" bellows the Khedive.

The others pay no attention at all. Except Simone Bouquereau, who was putting on her make-up in the mirror. She turns around. Her huge violet eyes are devouring her face. There's a smear of lipstick on her chin.

FOR A FEW minutes longer we heard the music. It died away just as we reached the Cascades crossroad. I was driving. Coco Lacour and Esmeralda were in the front seat. We glided along the road that borders the Lakes. Hell begins at the edge of the woods: Boulevard Lannes, Boulevard Flandrin, Avenue Henri-Martin. This is the most intimidating residential section in the whole of Paris. The silence that used to reign there in the evening, after eight o'clock, was almost reassuring. A middle-class
silence of felt, of velvet and good manners. You could picture the families gathered in the drawing room after dinner. Now, there's no telling what goes on behind the high dark walls. Once in a while a car passed us with all its lights out. I was afraid it would stop and block our way.

We took the Avenue Henri-Martin. Esmeralda was dozing. After eleven o'clock, little girls have a hard time keeping their eyes open. Coco Lacour was fiddling with the dashboard, spinning the radio knob. Neither of them had any idea how fragile their happiness was. Only I was bothered by it. We were three children making our way through ominous shadows in a big automobile. And if there happened to be a light at any window, I wouldn't rely on it. I know the district well. The Khedive used to have me search through private houses and confiscate objects of art: Second Empire houses, eighteenth-century "country retreats," turn-of-the-century buildings with stained-glass windows, pseudo-Gothic chateaux. Their sole occupant now was a terrified caretaker, forgotten by the owner in his flight. I'd ring the doorbell, show my police card and inspect the premises. I remember long walks: Ranelagh-La Muette-Auteuil, this was my route. I'd sit on a bench in the shade of the chestnut trees. Not a soul on the streets. I could enter any house in the area. The city was mine.