Night Rounds Read Free Page B

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