Night Rounds Read Online Free PDF

mantel. The others gradually quiet down. A kind of languor envelops them. They sprawl over the sofa and arm-chairs. "You're white as a sheet, son," murmurs the Khedive. "Don't worry. The roundup will be handled in a perfectly tidy way."
    It's pleasant to be out on a balcony in the open air and, for a moment, to forget that room where the scent of flowers, the chatter, and the music were making your head churn. A summer night, so soft and still that you think you're in love.
    "Of course, we have all the earmarks of gangsters. The men I use, the brutal tactics, the fact that we took you on as an informer, you with your pretty little Christ Child dimples; none of this speaks well for us, unfortunately …"
    The trees and the kiosk in the square are bathed in a reddish glow. "And this odd segment of humanity that gravitates toward what I call our little 'drugstore': swindlers, demimondaines, cashiered police officers, drug addicts, nightclub owners, in short, this whole string of marquises, counts, barons, and princesses that you won't find in the social register ..."
    Down below, edging the curb, a line of cars. Theirs. Dark blots in the night.
    "I'm well aware that all this could be rather distasteful to a well-bred young man. But" – his voice takes on a savage edge – "if you're among people as disreputable as these tonight, it means, in spite of your little choir-boy mug …" (Very tenderly.) "It simply means, dear fellow, that we're cut from the same cloth."
    The light from the chandeliers is burning their faces, corroding them like acid. Their features grow cavernous, their skin shrivels, their heads will surely shrink to miniature, like those the Jívaro Indians prize. An odor of flowers and withered flesh. Soon, the only trace of this gathering will be the tiny bubbles that burst on the surface of a pond. They're already wallowing in muddy-pink sludge, and it's rising, it's knee-deep. They don't have long to live.
    "This party's getting dull," announces Lionel de Zieff. "It's time to go," says Mr. Philibert. "First stop: Place du Châtelet. The Lieutenant!"
    "Coming, son?" asks the Khedive. Outside, the blackout, as usual. They split up at random and enter the cars. "Place du Châtelet!" "Place du Châtelet!" The doors slam. They're off like a shot. "No passing, Eddy!" orders the Khedive. "The sight of all these fine fellows cheers me up."
    "And to think that we're keeping this pack of riff-raff!" sighs Mr. Philibert. "Bear with it, Pierre. We're in business with them. They're our partners. For better or worse."
    Avenue Kléber. Their horns are blaring, their arms hang out the car windows, waving, flapping. They weave and tailgate, their bumpers grazing. They're out to see who'll take the wildest risks, make the loudest noise in the blackout. Champs Élysées. Concorde. Rue de Rivoli. "We're headed for a section I know like a book," says the Khedive. "Les Halles, where I spent my teens unloading vegetable carts."
    The others have disappeared. The Khedive smiles and lights a cigarette with his solid gold lighter. Rue de Castiglione. The Obelisk in the Place Vendôme, just barely visible on the left. Place des Pyramides. The car slows down gradually, as if approaching the border. Beyond the Rue du Louvre, the city suddenly seems to cave in .
    "We're entering the 'belly of Paris,'" comments the Khedive. Though the car windows are shut, a stench, unbearable at first and then by degrees more tolerable, makes you want to retch. They must have converted Les Hai les into a slaughterhouse.
    "The belly of Paris," repeats the Khedive.
    The car glides along slippery pavements. The hood is getting all spattered. Mud? Blood? Whatever it is, it's something warm.
    We cross Boulevard Sébastopol and come onto a vast open tract. All the surrounding houses have been razed; the only vestiges are wall beams with shreds of wallpaper. From the little left standing, you can picture the location of the stairs, the fireplaces, the closets. And