back. He regarded Baron coldly and with the self-conscious, penetrating, supercilious stare of a young, new officer.
“I must see the commissaire,” Baron said.
The agent said nothing. Baron gave him a long look, decided the man was half asleep, and brushed past him toward the door.
“What is your business?” the man said. He had taken Baron’s arm as he walked by.
Baron looked at him again.
“Important,” he said. “Urgent. International.”
The agent did not change expression. He wore no hat. His cap was hanging on the inside doorknob of the door Baron had just entered. He had yellow hair, parted far down on the left side, just above the tip of his ear. The hair was combed flatly across his skull, toward the other side. It gave Baron the impression that the man looked out at him through a curved opening in a length of yellow pipe.
“Américain?”
«Oui. Vite, s’il vous plaît.»
The agent released Baron’s arm. “It is late,” he said.
Baron said nothing.
The man shrugged. “Wait,” he said. He lounged across the room and creaked through the door into the office. The door closed.
Baron stood by the chair. He walked around the room. He looked up at the cold glass windows that circled the walls of the room, revealing nothing but water pipes. The room was not near an outside wall, and the windows were dark beyond the elbows and joints and sockets of water pipes. The pipes ran all around the room behind the windows. He waited a long time, perhaps five minutes.
Abruptly he stalked toward the office door. His first step in that direction brought the door open. The young agent returned, closed the door carefully, lounged over to the chair, and put either hand on its back once again. He did not look at Baron.
“Come back tomorrow,” he said. “It is late.”
A plain-clothes man came out of the office, rapidly closed the door, looked at neither of them, put his hat on, and left the waiting room. He was trying to shove a sheaf of papers into his right-hand coat pocket and they would not fit.
Baron stepped quickly over to the office door, opened it, and entered. Behind him the agent said, “Very well,” and did not move. Baron closed the door.
The office was empty. There was a large desk cluttered with papers, and a black cheroot burned in a clean ash tray beneath a green-shaded desk lamp. Behind the desk large windows opened into an alley. The limb of a tree waved slowly behind the windows. On the left wall of the room was an open door and Baron heard somebody snorting in water in there. Then whoever it was coughed and spat and grunted.
Behind him the door opened and another uniformed officer entered. He walked quickly to the desk, put down an envelope, picked up another envelope, and left.
The commissaire came out of the washroom, drying his hands on a towel, still coughing. He stared at Baron, finished drying his hands, wiped the back of his neck under the open tunic, tossed the towel inside the washroom on the floor.
“What?” the commissaire said.
Baron started to say something, attempted something else, then stopped and said nothing.
The commissaire was bald. He was a stocky, red-faced man, with clear blue eyes, rather merry, Baron thought, and a wrinkled uniform. Under his eyes the flesh sagged in wrinkles, which went along with his dress. He moved decisively. He went to the desk, picked up the cheroot, poked at the envelope the other officer had left, coughed, and stuck the cigar in his mouth and chewed on it. Finally he drew a great puff of smoke, breathed it out, stepped up to Baron. He stared into Baron’s eyes and waited.
Baron opened his mouth and everything came out like water from a faucet. He told the commissaire the entire story, sparing nothing. Once it got going, he was not able to stop it for a moment. It rushed from him. Every word was a kind of pleasant relief and he drove toward the end, breathing hard, wanting to get it all out of him, onto somebody else’s
“I must see the commissaire,” Baron said.
The agent said nothing. Baron gave him a long look, decided the man was half asleep, and brushed past him toward the door.
“What is your business?” the man said. He had taken Baron’s arm as he walked by.
Baron looked at him again.
“Important,” he said. “Urgent. International.”
The agent did not change expression. He wore no hat. His cap was hanging on the inside doorknob of the door Baron had just entered. He had yellow hair, parted far down on the left side, just above the tip of his ear. The hair was combed flatly across his skull, toward the other side. It gave Baron the impression that the man looked out at him through a curved opening in a length of yellow pipe.
“Américain?”
«Oui. Vite, s’il vous plaît.»
The agent released Baron’s arm. “It is late,” he said.
Baron said nothing.
The man shrugged. “Wait,” he said. He lounged across the room and creaked through the door into the office. The door closed.
Baron stood by the chair. He walked around the room. He looked up at the cold glass windows that circled the walls of the room, revealing nothing but water pipes. The room was not near an outside wall, and the windows were dark beyond the elbows and joints and sockets of water pipes. The pipes ran all around the room behind the windows. He waited a long time, perhaps five minutes.
Abruptly he stalked toward the office door. His first step in that direction brought the door open. The young agent returned, closed the door carefully, lounged over to the chair, and put either hand on its back once again. He did not look at Baron.
“Come back tomorrow,” he said. “It is late.”
A plain-clothes man came out of the office, rapidly closed the door, looked at neither of them, put his hat on, and left the waiting room. He was trying to shove a sheaf of papers into his right-hand coat pocket and they would not fit.
Baron stepped quickly over to the office door, opened it, and entered. Behind him the agent said, “Very well,” and did not move. Baron closed the door.
The office was empty. There was a large desk cluttered with papers, and a black cheroot burned in a clean ash tray beneath a green-shaded desk lamp. Behind the desk large windows opened into an alley. The limb of a tree waved slowly behind the windows. On the left wall of the room was an open door and Baron heard somebody snorting in water in there. Then whoever it was coughed and spat and grunted.
Behind him the door opened and another uniformed officer entered. He walked quickly to the desk, put down an envelope, picked up another envelope, and left.
The commissaire came out of the washroom, drying his hands on a towel, still coughing. He stared at Baron, finished drying his hands, wiped the back of his neck under the open tunic, tossed the towel inside the washroom on the floor.
“What?” the commissaire said.
Baron started to say something, attempted something else, then stopped and said nothing.
The commissaire was bald. He was a stocky, red-faced man, with clear blue eyes, rather merry, Baron thought, and a wrinkled uniform. Under his eyes the flesh sagged in wrinkles, which went along with his dress. He moved decisively. He went to the desk, picked up the cheroot, poked at the envelope the other officer had left, coughed, and stuck the cigar in his mouth and chewed on it. Finally he drew a great puff of smoke, breathed it out, stepped up to Baron. He stared into Baron’s eyes and waited.
Baron opened his mouth and everything came out like water from a faucet. He told the commissaire the entire story, sparing nothing. Once it got going, he was not able to stop it for a moment. It rushed from him. Every word was a kind of pleasant relief and he drove toward the end, breathing hard, wanting to get it all out of him, onto somebody else’s
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