Hunched low over the keys, his eyes squeezed shut, Monsieur Philibert pounds the chords with all of his strength. His playing becomes more and more impassioned.
‘Like it, mon petit?’ asks the Khedive.
Monsieur Philibert has slammed the lid of the piano shut. He gets to his feet, rubbing his hands, and strides over to the Khedive. After a pause:
‘We just brought someone in, Henri. Distributing leaflets. We caught him red-handed. Breton and Reocreux are in the cellar giving him a good going over.’
The others are still dazed from the waltz. Silent, motionless, they stand precisely where the music left them.
‘I was just telling the boy about you, Pierre,’ murmurs the Khedive. ‘Telling him what a sensitive boy you are, a terpsichorean, a virtuoso, an artist. .’
‘Thank you, Henri. It’s all true, but you know how I despise big words. You should have told this young man that I am a policeman, no more, no less.’
‘The finest flatfoot in France! And I’m quoting a cabinet minister!’
‘That was a long time ago, Henri.’
‘In those days, Pierre, I would have been afraid of you. Inspector Philibert! Fearsome! When they make me préfet de police, I’ll appoint you commissaire, my darling.’
‘Shut up!’
‘But you love me all the same?’
A scream. Then two. Then three. Loud and shrill. Monsieur Philibert glances at his watch. ‘Three quarters of an hour already. He’s bound to crack soon. I’ll go and check.’ The Chapochnikoff brothers follow close on his heels. The others — it would appear — heard nothing.
‘You are truly divine,’ Paulo Hayakawa tells Baroness Lydia, proffering a glass of champagne. ‘Really?’ Frau Sultana and Ivanoff are gazing into each other’s eyes. Baruzzi is creeping wolfishly towards Simone Bouquereau, but Zieff trips him up. Baruzzi upsets a vase of dahlias as he falls. ‘So you’ve decided to play the ladies’ man? Ignoring your beloved Lionel?’ He bursts out laughing and fans himself with his light-blue handkerchief.
‘It’s the guy they arrested,’ murmurs the Khedive, ‘the one handing out pamphlets. They’re working him over. He’s bound to crack soon, mon petit. Would you like to watch?’ ‘A toast to the Khedive!’ roars Lionel de Zieff. ‘To Inspector Philibert!’ adds Paulo Hayakawa, idly caressing the Baroness’ neck. A scream. Then two. A lingering sob.
‘Talk or die!’ bellows the Khedive.
The others pay no attention. Excepting Simone Bouquereau, still touching up her make-up in the mirror. She turns, her great violet eyes devouring her face. A streak of lipstick across her chin.
We could still make out the music for a few minutes more. It faded as we reached the junction at Cascades. I was driving. Coco Lacour and Esmeralda were huddled together in the passenger seat. We glided along the Route des Lacs. Hell begins as we leave the Bois de Boulogne: Boulevard Lannes, Boulevard Flandrin, Avenue Henri-Martin. This is the most fearsome residential section in the whole of Paris. The silence that once upon a time reigned here after eight o’clock, was almost reassuring. A bourgeois silence of plush velvet and propriety. One could almost see the families gathered in the drawing room after dinner. These days, there’s no knowing what goes on behind the high dark walls. Once in a while, a car passed, its headlights out. I was afraid it might stop and block our way.
We took the Avenue Henri-Martin. Esmeralda was half-asleep. After eleven o’clock, little girls have a hard time keeping their eyes open. Coco Lacour was toying with the dashboard, turning the radio dial. Neither of them had any idea just how fragile was their happiness. I was the only one who worried about it. We were three children making our way through ominous shadows in a huge 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 raid private houses and confiscate objects of art: Second Empire hôtels particuliers, eighteenth-century ‘follies’, turn-of-the-century buildings with stained-glass windows, faux-châteaux in the gothic style. These days, their sole occupant was a terrified caretaker, overlooked by the owner in his flight. I’d ring the doorbell, flash my warrant card and search 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.
Place du Trocadéro. Coco Lacour and Esmeralda at my side, those two staunch companions. Maman used to tell me: ‘You get the friends you deserve.’ To which I’d always reply that men are much too garrulous for my taste, that I can’t stand the babble of blowflies that stream out of their mouths. It gives me a headache. Takes my breath away — and I’m short enough of breath already. The Lieutenant, for example, could talk the hind legs off a donkey. Every time I step into his office, he gets to his feet and with an ‘Ah, my young friend,’ or ‘Ah, mon petit’ he starts his spiel. After that, words come tumbling in a torrent so swift he scarcely has time to articulate them. The verbal torrent briefly abates, only to wash over me again a minute later. His voice grows increasingly shrill. Before long he’s chirping, the words choking in his throat. He taps his foot, waves his arms, twitches, hiccups, then suddenly becomes morose and lapses back into a monotone. He invariably concludes with: ‘Balls, my boy!’ uttered in an exhausted whisper.
The first time we met, he said: ‘I need you. We’ve got serious work to do. I work in the shadows alongside my men. Your mission is to infiltrate the enemy and to report back — as discreetly as possible — about what the bastards are up to.’ He made a clear distinction between us: he and his senior officers reaped the honour and the glory. The spying and the double-dealing fell to me. That night, re-reading the Anthology of Traitors from Alcibiades to Captain Dreyfus, it occurred to me that my particular disposition was well-suited to double-dealing and — why not? — to treason. Not enough moral fibre to be a hero. Too dispassionate and distracted to be a real villain. On the other hand, I was malleable, I had a fondness for action, and I was plainly good-natured.
We were driving along Avenue Kléber. Coco Lacour was yawning. Esmeralda had nodded off, her little head lolling against my shoulder. It’s high time they were in bed. Avenue Kléber. That other night we had taken the same route after leaving L’Heure Mauve, a cabaret club on the Champs-Élysées. A rather languid crowd were grouped together in red velvet booths or perched on bar stools: Lionel de Zieff, Costachesco, Lussatz, Méthode, Frau Sultana, Odicharvi, Lydia Stahl, Otto da Silva, the Chapochnikoff brothers. . Hot, muggy twilight. The trailing scent of Egyptian perfumes. Yes, there were still a few small islands in Paris where people tried to ignore ‘the disaster lately occurred’, where a pre-war hedonism and frivolity festered. Contemplating all those faces, I repeated to myself a phrase I had read somewhere: ‘Brash vulgarity that reeks of betrayal and murder. .’
Close to the bar a Victrola was playing:
Bonsoir
Jolie Madame
Je suis venu
Vous dire bonsoir. .