‘A game of blind man’s buff?’ ‘What a good idea!’ ‘We won’t even need blindfolds!’ ‘It’s dark enough.’ ‘You’re it, Odicharvi!’ ‘Scatter, everyone!’
They creep around the room. You can hear the closet door open. They’re probably plannning to hide there. It sounds as if they’re crawling around the desk. The floor is creaking. Someone bumps into a piece of furniture. A face is silhouetted against the window. Gales of laughter. Sighs. Frantic gestures. They run around in all directions. ‘Caught you, Baruzzi!’ ‘Hard luck, I’m Helder.’ ‘Who’s that?’ ‘Guess!’ ‘Rosenheim?’ ‘No.’ ‘Costachesco?’ ‘No.’ ‘Give up?’
‘We’ll arrest them tonight,’ says the Khedive. ‘The Lieutenant and all the members of the ring, EVERY LAST ONE. These people are sabotaging our work.’
‘You still haven’t given us Lamballe’s address,’ murmurs Monsieur Philibert. ‘When are you going to make up your mind, mon petit? Come on now. .’
‘Give him a chance, Pierrot.’
Suddenly the chandeliers flicker on again. They blink into the light. 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, go on!’ ‘“Quin’avaitja-ja-ja-ja-maisnavigué. .” ’
‘You want to see my tattoos?’ asks Frau Sultana. She rips open her blouse. On each breast is a ship’s anchor. Baroness Lydia Stahl and Violette Morris wrestle her to the ground and strip her. She wriggles and struggles free of the clutches, giggling and squealing, egging them on. Violette Morris chases her across the living room to the corner where Zieff is sucking on a chicken wing. ‘Nothing like a tasty morsel now rationing is here to stay. Do you know what I did just now? I stood in front of the mirror and smeared my face with foie gras! Foie gras worth fifteen thousand francs a medallion!’ (He bursts out laughing.) ‘Another cognac?’ offers Pols de Helder. ‘You can’t get it any more. A half-bottle sells for a hundred thousand francs. English cigarettes? I have them flown in direct from Lisbon. Twenty thousand francs a pack.’
‘One of these days they’ll address me as Monsieur le Préfet de police,’ the Khedive announces crisply. He stares off into the middle distance.
‘To the health of the Préfet!’ shouts Lionel de Zieff. He staggers and collapses onto the piano. The glass has slipped from his hands. Monsieur Philibert thumbs through a dossier along with Paulo Hayakawa and Baruzzi. The Chapochnikoff brothers busy themselves at the Victrola. Simone Bouquereau gazes at herself in the mirror.
Die Nacht
Die Musik
Und dein Mund
hums Baroness Lydia, doing a quick dance.
‘Anyone for a session of sexuo-divine paneurhythmy?’ Ivanoff the Oracle whinnies, his voice like a stallion.
The Khedive eyes them mournfully. ‘They’ll address me as Monsieur le Préfet.’ He raises his voice: ‘Monsieur le Préfet de police!’ He bangs 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, mon petit, I have need of your presence, such a sensitive boy, 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, caressing 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 indigo eyes widen, her complexion slowly pales to ashen. Violette Morris has taken a seat on the velvet sofa next to Frau Sultana. Both women have extended the palms of their white hands to Ivanoff’s gaze.
‘The price of tungsten has gone up,’ Baruzzi announces. ‘I can get you a good deal. I’ve got a little sideline with Guy Max in the purchasing office on Rue Villejust.’
‘I thought he only dealt in textiles,’ says Monsieur Philibert.
‘He’s changed his line,’ says Hayakawa. ‘Sold all of his stock to Macias-Reoyo.’
‘Maybe you’d rather raw hides?’ asks Baruzzi. ‘The price of box calf has gone up a hundred francs.’
‘Odicharvi mentioned three tons of worsted he wants to get rid of. I thought of you, Philibert.’
‘I can have thirty-six thousand decks of cards delivered to you by morning. . You’ll get the top price for them. Now’s the time. They launched their Schwerpunkt Aktion at the beginning of the month.’
Ivanoff is intent on the palm of the Marquise.
‘Quiet!’ shouts Violette Morris. ‘The Oracle is predicting her future. Quiet!’
‘What do you think of that, mon petit?’ the Khedive asks me. ‘Ivanoff rules women with his rod. Though his fame is not exactly iron! They can’t do without him. Mystics, mon cher. And he plays it to the hilt! The old fool!’ He rests his elbows on the edge of the balcony. Below is a peaceful square of the kind you only find in the 16th arrondissement. The street lights cast a strange blue glow on the foliage and the bandstand. ‘Did you know, mon fils, that before the war this grand house we’re in belonged to M. de Bel-Respiro?’ (His voice is increasingly subdued.) ‘In a cabinet, I found some letters that he wrote his wife and children. A real family man. Look, that’s him there.’ He gestures to a full-length portrait hanging between the two windows. ‘M. de Bel-Respiro in the flesh wearing his Spahi officer’s uniform. Look at all those medals! There’s a model Frenchman for you!’
‘A square mile of rayon?’ offers Baruzzi. ‘I’ll sell it to you dirt cheap. Five tons of biscuits? The freight cars have been impounded at the Spanish border. You’ll have no problem getting them released. All I ask is a small commission, Philibert.’
The Chapochnikoff brothers prowl around the Khedive, not daring to speak to him. Zieff is sleeping with his mouth open. Frau Sultana and Violette Morris are hanging on Ivanoff’s every word: astral flux. . sacred pentagram. . grains of sustenance from the nourishing earth. . great cosmic waves. . incantatory paneu-rhythmy. . Betelgeuse. . But Simone Bouquereau presses her forehead up against the mirror.
‘I’m not interested in any of these financial schemes,’ interrupts Monsieur Philibert.
Disappointed, Baruzzi and Hayakawa tango across the room to the chair where Lionel de Zieff is sleeping and shake his shoulder to wake him. Monsieur Philibert thumbs through a dossier, pencil in hand.
‘You see, mon petit,’ the Khedive resumes (he looks as though he is about to burst into tears), ‘I never had any education. After my father died, I was alone and I spent the night sleeping on his grave. It was bitter cold, that night. At fourteen, the reformatory in Eysses. . penal military unit. . Fresnes Prison. . The only people I met were louts like myself. . Life. .’
‘Wake up, Lionel!’ shrieks Hayakawa.
‘We’ve got something important to tell you,’ adds Baruzzi.