[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
roundup on the Rue Boisrobert for some afternoon when
Night Rounds
all the R.K.S. members are there ? What do you say to
that, Troubadour ?" I discouraged this plan. It would be
better to arrest them individually. "We've no time to lose,
Troubadour." I calmed their impatience, promising again
to come up with some definite information. Sooner or
later they'd press me so hard that to get them off my back
I'd have to keep my promises. The "haul" would take
place. I would finally earn that epithet "stool pigeon"
the one that made my heart skip, my head reel, every time
I heard it. STOOL PIGEON. Still, I tried to postpone the dead
line by assuring my two bosses that the R.K.S. group was
innocuous. Dreamy-eyed kids. Full of ideals, nothing
more. Why not let the blessed idiots be ? They had a par
ticular disease : youth, which you get over pretty fast. In
a few months they'd be much more tractable. Even the
Lieutenant would abandon the struggle. And anyway,
was there any struggle other than a heated debate with
constantly recurring words like Justice, Progress, Truth,
Democracy, Freedom, Revolution, Honor, and Patriot
ism ? The whole thing struck me as completely harmless.
As I saw it, the only dangerous man was LAM-BALLE,
whom I'd not yet identified. Invisible. Elusive. The real
brains behind the R.K.S. He would act, indeed, and with
the utmost brutality. The very mention of his name at
the Rue Boisrobert evoked murmurs of awe and admira
tion. LAM-BALLE ! Who was he ? When I put this question
to the Lieutenant, he evaded it. "LAMBALLE will take care
of the gangsters and traitors who have the upper hand
Night Rounds
just now. LAMBALLE strikes swiftly and surely. We shall
obey LAMBALLE blindly. LAMBALLE is never wrong. LAMýÿ
BALLE is a tremendous person. LAMBALLE, our only hope.
. . . " I couldn't get any more definite information. With
a little patience we'd unmask the mystery man. I kept
telling the Khedive and Philibert that capturing Lamballe
ought to be our sole target. LAMýÿBALLE ! The others weren't
important. A nice bunch of babblers. I asked that they be
spared. "We'll see. First get details on this Lamballe
person. Understand ?" The Khedive's mouth curled up
in a menacing leer. Philibert, looking pensive, stroked
" "
his mustache and murmured : LAM-BALLE, LAMýÿBALLE.
'
"I'll settle this LAMBALLE s hash," the Khedive concluded,
"and neither London, Vichy, nor the Americans will be
able to save him. Cognac ? Craven ? Help yourself, my
boy." "We've just made a deal for the Sebastiana del
Piombo," announced Philibert. "Here's your 10 per cent
commission." He handed me a paleýÿgreen envelope. "Get
me some Asian bronzes for tomorrow. We've got a client."
I rather enjoyed these sideline jobs they gave me : locating
works of art and delivering them straight to Cimarosa
Square. In the morning I'd enter the homes of the wealthy
who'd left Paris on the heels of events. All I had to do
was pick a lock or get a key from the caretaker by showýÿ
ing my police card. I searched abandoned houses from
cellar to attic. The owners had left numerous unimporýÿ
tant items behind : pastels, vases, tapestries, books, illuýÿ
minated manuscripts. That wasn't enough. I looked for
Night Rounds
storerooms, vaults, places where, in periods of uncertainty,
extremely valuable collections might be hidden. An attic
in the suburbs rewarded me with Gobelin tapestries and
Persian carpets, a musty garage at Porte Champferret was
crammed with old masters. In a cellar in Auteuil, a
foot locker containing antique and Renaissance jewelry.
I went about my looting cheerfully and even with a sense
of pleasure that I would regret-later on-in court. We
were living in extraordinary times. Stolen objects and
black-marketeering converted into ready cash, and the
Khedive, justly appraising my talents, used me for track
ing down works of art rather than precious objects of
nonferrous metal. I was grateful for this. I experienced
great esthetic pleasures. For example, standing before a
Goya depicting the assassination of the Princess de Lam
balle. The owner had tried to save it by hiding it in a
vault at the Franco-Serbian Bank at 3 Rue Helder. All I
had to do was show my police card and they turned over
this masterpiece to me. We sold all the looted property.
A strange time. It will turn me into a rather "unsavory"
character. Finger man, looter, murderer perhaps. I was
no worse than the next man. I followed the trend, simple
as that. I'm not unduly attracted to evil. One day I met
an old gentleman covered with rings and laces. He told
me in his quavering voice that he clipped out pictures of
criminals from Detective magazine, for he found a "sav
age" and "malevolent" beauty in their faces. He admired
their "unalterable" and "lofty" solitude and mentioned
Night Rounds
one of them, Eugene Weidmann, calling him the "angel
of the shadows." This old fellow was a literary man. I
told him that on the day of Weidmann's execution he
wore crepe-soled shoes. His mother had bought them for
him in Frankfort some time back. And that if you really
cared for people, humble details of this sort deserve your
attention. The rest was unimportant. Poor Weidmann !
At this very moment Hitler has gone to sleep sucking his
thumb, and I glance pityingly at him. He yelps, like a
dreaming dog. He curls up, shrivels steadily, inch by
inch ; he would fit in the palm of my hand. "What are
you thinking about, Swing Troubadour ?" "About our
Fuhrer, Mr. Philibert." "We're going to sell the Frans
Hals very shortly. You get a 15 per cent commission for
your trouble. If you help us capture Lamballe, I'll give
you a five hundred thousand franc bonus. Enough to set
you up royally. Have a cognac ?" My head is reeling.
Probably the scent of the flowers. The living room was
buried under the dahlias and the orchids. A colossal rose
bush between the two windows partly hid the self-portrait
of M. de Bel-Respiro. Ten in the evening. One after an [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl chiara76.opx.pl
roundup on the Rue Boisrobert for some afternoon when
Night Rounds
all the R.K.S. members are there ? What do you say to
that, Troubadour ?" I discouraged this plan. It would be
better to arrest them individually. "We've no time to lose,
Troubadour." I calmed their impatience, promising again
to come up with some definite information. Sooner or
later they'd press me so hard that to get them off my back
I'd have to keep my promises. The "haul" would take
place. I would finally earn that epithet "stool pigeon"
the one that made my heart skip, my head reel, every time
I heard it. STOOL PIGEON. Still, I tried to postpone the dead
line by assuring my two bosses that the R.K.S. group was
innocuous. Dreamy-eyed kids. Full of ideals, nothing
more. Why not let the blessed idiots be ? They had a par
ticular disease : youth, which you get over pretty fast. In
a few months they'd be much more tractable. Even the
Lieutenant would abandon the struggle. And anyway,
was there any struggle other than a heated debate with
constantly recurring words like Justice, Progress, Truth,
Democracy, Freedom, Revolution, Honor, and Patriot
ism ? The whole thing struck me as completely harmless.
As I saw it, the only dangerous man was LAM-BALLE,
whom I'd not yet identified. Invisible. Elusive. The real
brains behind the R.K.S. He would act, indeed, and with
the utmost brutality. The very mention of his name at
the Rue Boisrobert evoked murmurs of awe and admira
tion. LAM-BALLE ! Who was he ? When I put this question
to the Lieutenant, he evaded it. "LAMBALLE will take care
of the gangsters and traitors who have the upper hand
Night Rounds
just now. LAMBALLE strikes swiftly and surely. We shall
obey LAMBALLE blindly. LAMBALLE is never wrong. LAMýÿ
BALLE is a tremendous person. LAMBALLE, our only hope.
. . . " I couldn't get any more definite information. With
a little patience we'd unmask the mystery man. I kept
telling the Khedive and Philibert that capturing Lamballe
ought to be our sole target. LAMýÿBALLE ! The others weren't
important. A nice bunch of babblers. I asked that they be
spared. "We'll see. First get details on this Lamballe
person. Understand ?" The Khedive's mouth curled up
in a menacing leer. Philibert, looking pensive, stroked
" "
his mustache and murmured : LAM-BALLE, LAMýÿBALLE.
'
"I'll settle this LAMBALLE s hash," the Khedive concluded,
"and neither London, Vichy, nor the Americans will be
able to save him. Cognac ? Craven ? Help yourself, my
boy." "We've just made a deal for the Sebastiana del
Piombo," announced Philibert. "Here's your 10 per cent
commission." He handed me a paleýÿgreen envelope. "Get
me some Asian bronzes for tomorrow. We've got a client."
I rather enjoyed these sideline jobs they gave me : locating
works of art and delivering them straight to Cimarosa
Square. In the morning I'd enter the homes of the wealthy
who'd left Paris on the heels of events. All I had to do
was pick a lock or get a key from the caretaker by showýÿ
ing my police card. I searched abandoned houses from
cellar to attic. The owners had left numerous unimporýÿ
tant items behind : pastels, vases, tapestries, books, illuýÿ
minated manuscripts. That wasn't enough. I looked for
Night Rounds
storerooms, vaults, places where, in periods of uncertainty,
extremely valuable collections might be hidden. An attic
in the suburbs rewarded me with Gobelin tapestries and
Persian carpets, a musty garage at Porte Champferret was
crammed with old masters. In a cellar in Auteuil, a
foot locker containing antique and Renaissance jewelry.
I went about my looting cheerfully and even with a sense
of pleasure that I would regret-later on-in court. We
were living in extraordinary times. Stolen objects and
black-marketeering converted into ready cash, and the
Khedive, justly appraising my talents, used me for track
ing down works of art rather than precious objects of
nonferrous metal. I was grateful for this. I experienced
great esthetic pleasures. For example, standing before a
Goya depicting the assassination of the Princess de Lam
balle. The owner had tried to save it by hiding it in a
vault at the Franco-Serbian Bank at 3 Rue Helder. All I
had to do was show my police card and they turned over
this masterpiece to me. We sold all the looted property.
A strange time. It will turn me into a rather "unsavory"
character. Finger man, looter, murderer perhaps. I was
no worse than the next man. I followed the trend, simple
as that. I'm not unduly attracted to evil. One day I met
an old gentleman covered with rings and laces. He told
me in his quavering voice that he clipped out pictures of
criminals from Detective magazine, for he found a "sav
age" and "malevolent" beauty in their faces. He admired
their "unalterable" and "lofty" solitude and mentioned
Night Rounds
one of them, Eugene Weidmann, calling him the "angel
of the shadows." This old fellow was a literary man. I
told him that on the day of Weidmann's execution he
wore crepe-soled shoes. His mother had bought them for
him in Frankfort some time back. And that if you really
cared for people, humble details of this sort deserve your
attention. The rest was unimportant. Poor Weidmann !
At this very moment Hitler has gone to sleep sucking his
thumb, and I glance pityingly at him. He yelps, like a
dreaming dog. He curls up, shrivels steadily, inch by
inch ; he would fit in the palm of my hand. "What are
you thinking about, Swing Troubadour ?" "About our
Fuhrer, Mr. Philibert." "We're going to sell the Frans
Hals very shortly. You get a 15 per cent commission for
your trouble. If you help us capture Lamballe, I'll give
you a five hundred thousand franc bonus. Enough to set
you up royally. Have a cognac ?" My head is reeling.
Probably the scent of the flowers. The living room was
buried under the dahlias and the orchids. A colossal rose
bush between the two windows partly hid the self-portrait
of M. de Bel-Respiro. Ten in the evening. One after an [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]