each stop I met new faces: Costachesco, the Baron de Lussatz, Odicharvi, Hayakawa, Lionel de Zieff, Pols de Helder… Adventurers, abortionists, sharpers, bogus journalists, sham lawyers and accountants who gravitated toward the Khedive and Mr. Philibert. Supplemented by a whole battery of demimondaines, strip-teasers, drug addicts… Frau Sultana, Simone Bouquereau, Baroness Lydia Stahl, Violette Morris, Magda d'Andurian… My two bosses launched me into this underworld. Champs Élysées : the Elysian Fields. That's what they called the joyous abode of the righteous and heroic dead. So I wonder how the avenue where I'm standing came by that name. I do see ghosts there, but only those of Mr. Philibert, the Khedive, and their acolytes. Walking arm in arm out of the Claridge come Joanovici and the Count de Cagliostro. They wear white suits and platinum rings. The shy young man crossing the Rue Lord Byron is Eugene Weidmann. Motionless in front of Pam-Pam stands Thérèse de Païva, the Second Empire's most beautiful whore. On the corner of the Rue Marbeuf, Dr. Petiot smiled at me. The Colisée's outdoor café: a group of black marketeers are gulping down champagne. Including Count Baruzzi, the Chapochnikoff brothers, Rachid von Rosenheim, Jean-Farouk de Méthode, Otto da Silva, a host of others … If I can reach the Rand-Point, maybe I can lose these phantoms. Hurry. The silence and greenery in the gardens of the Champs-Élysées. I often used to stop there. After working all afternoon in bars along the avenue ("business" appointments with the above-mentioned persons), I'd walk over to this park for a breath of clean air. I'd sit on a bench, short of breath. Pockets full of cash. Twenty thousand, sometimes a hundred thousand francs.
Our agency was, if not approved of, at least tolerated by the Police Department: we furnished whatever information they asked for. Moreover, we were running a racket with the above-mentioned persons. They believed they were buying our silence and protection, since Mr. Philibert had close ties with his former colleagues, Inspectors Rothé, David, Jalby, Jurgens, Santoni, Permilleux, Sadowsky, François, and Detmar. My job, as a matter of fact, was to collect the racket money. Twenty thousand, sometimes a hundred thousand francs. It had been a rough day. Bargaining and more bargaining. I could see their faces: sallow, oily, standard brands in a police line-up. Some of them tried to hold out and I was obliged to – yes, in spite of all my timidity and softheartedness – raise my voice, threaten to go straight to the police at the Quai des Orfèvres if they didn't pay up. I told them about the files my bosses had me keep with a record of each and every name and life history. Nothing very special, those files. They would dig out their wallets, and call me a "squealer." The word stung.
I was alone on the bench. Some places invite reflection. Public gardens, for instance, lost kingdoms in Paris, fading oases amid the roar and the callousness of humanity. The Tuileries. The Luxembourg. The Bois de Boulogne. But never did I do so much thinking as in the Champs Élysées gardens. What really was my profession? Blackmailer? Police spy? I counted the cash and took out my 10 per cent. I'd go over to Lachaume and order a whole thicket of red roses. Pick out two or three rings at Van Cleef & Arpels. Then buy fifty-odd dresses at Piguet, Lelong, and Molyneux. All that for Mama – blackmailer, bum, informer, finger man, perhaps killer, but a model son. That was my only consolation. It was getting dark. The children were leaving the park after one last ride on the carousel. Along the Champs-Élysées the street lights went on all at once. It would have paid – I told myself – to stick close to the Place des Acacias. Make sure to avoid the main streets and boulevards because of the noise, the unpleasant encounters. What a foolhardy idea to be sitting outside at the Royal-Villiers café, Place Pereire, I who
Our agency was, if not approved of, at least tolerated by the Police Department: we furnished whatever information they asked for. Moreover, we were running a racket with the above-mentioned persons. They believed they were buying our silence and protection, since Mr. Philibert had close ties with his former colleagues, Inspectors Rothé, David, Jalby, Jurgens, Santoni, Permilleux, Sadowsky, François, and Detmar. My job, as a matter of fact, was to collect the racket money. Twenty thousand, sometimes a hundred thousand francs. It had been a rough day. Bargaining and more bargaining. I could see their faces: sallow, oily, standard brands in a police line-up. Some of them tried to hold out and I was obliged to – yes, in spite of all my timidity and softheartedness – raise my voice, threaten to go straight to the police at the Quai des Orfèvres if they didn't pay up. I told them about the files my bosses had me keep with a record of each and every name and life history. Nothing very special, those files. They would dig out their wallets, and call me a "squealer." The word stung.
I was alone on the bench. Some places invite reflection. Public gardens, for instance, lost kingdoms in Paris, fading oases amid the roar and the callousness of humanity. The Tuileries. The Luxembourg. The Bois de Boulogne. But never did I do so much thinking as in the Champs Élysées gardens. What really was my profession? Blackmailer? Police spy? I counted the cash and took out my 10 per cent. I'd go over to Lachaume and order a whole thicket of red roses. Pick out two or three rings at Van Cleef & Arpels. Then buy fifty-odd dresses at Piguet, Lelong, and Molyneux. All that for Mama – blackmailer, bum, informer, finger man, perhaps killer, but a model son. That was my only consolation. It was getting dark. The children were leaving the park after one last ride on the carousel. Along the Champs-Élysées the street lights went on all at once. It would have paid – I told myself – to stick close to the Place des Acacias. Make sure to avoid the main streets and boulevards because of the noise, the unpleasant encounters. What a foolhardy idea to be sitting outside at the Royal-Villiers café, Place Pereire, I who
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