Night Rounds Read Free

"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