Read Online The Alternative Detective (Hob Draconian) by Robert Sheckley - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert Sheckley
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were feigned, too.
Rachel found me some hours later in Harry’s New York Bar near the Opéra. Harry’s is dark polished woods and American voices and is the sort of place that tolerates quiet drunks, as long as they leave the other customers alone. I was a very quiet drunk. They probably thought I was crazy when I asked for saki, but the stuff works on me like a psychedelic, and I find it hard to worry when I have enough of it in me.
“You’re drunk,” Rachel said.
“Nobody’s perfect,” I told her.
“Did you find out anything about that guy who you say has been following you?”
“His name’s Tony Romagna.”
“Why is he following you?”
“Mr. Romagna didn’t seem fit to enlighten me as to that. Mr. Romagna said that he was in Paris to enjoy a brief vacation and look after a friend’s interests. Any of that mean anything to you?”
She shook her head. “It can’t have anything to do with me.”
“What about Alex?”
“How should I know? Did this Romagna say what he wanted?”
“Not a clue.”
Rachel frowned, bit her lower lip gently, and said “What do we do now?”
“We go for dinner,” I told her, “at La Dolce Vita on the Avenue des Ternes. Romagna said it was the best Italian food in Paris.”
“Big deal,” Rachel said. “I’m not in Paris to eat spaghetti for chrissakes.”
“It’s the only lead we’ve got,” I said. “If it is a lead, which it just might be.”
The food at Dolce Vita was quite good, as a matter of fact, though I’ll spare you the menu this time, except to mention that the cannellonis were exceptional. It was a night for confidences. But no one came over to our red-checkered tablecloth, leaned over the candle guttering in the Chianti bottle and said, “I have a tale to tell.” Not just then, anyhow. Nor did we have much to say to each other. Rachel seemed preoccupied, depressed. She seemed to have a hangnail on her left little finger, and she kept on biting at it.
We left around half past nine in the evening, by different cabs since we were going in different directions, Rachel to the Crillon in the Place de la Concorde, me to an evening in the cafés, and then back to the Cygne and to bed.
CLOVIS
15
It was a bright, beautiful morning when I left the Hôtel du Cygne to go to the casting call at the old Gaumont Studios in upper Montmartre. I decided that I really should conserve some of Rachel’s money, so instead of taking a taxi, I walked to the Châtelet Underground, then rode in a second-class car to Opéra, where I changed, then changed again at St-Lazare and finally got out at Lamarck Caulaincourt.
I caught glimpses of the beautiful basilica of the Sacré-Coeur as I walked down Caulaincourt to the entrance of the old Gaumont Studios, oldest in Europe, so I’ve heard.
From the outside the studio building resembled a cross between a fortress and a storage warehouse. The building was at the top of a steep hill. You left the shady plane trees of the boulevard and climbed up a series of steps to a steel mesh pedestrian bridge that crossed over to the Gaumont proper.
A receptionist took my name and told me where their casting call was being held. I walked down echoing corridors, past busy technicians doing esoteric things with tape reels. At last I came to the place where I was supposed to go.
Or at least I thought that was where I was supposed to go. I was on a huge sound stage. Low footlights illuminated the scene. The curtains had been pulled back, revealing a scattering of props: a mock-up of a cathedral door; a painted country meadow with river in background; a café set with real chairs and a zinc bar in the foreground.
As I crossed the stage, a spotlight came on from overhead and picked me up. It followed me as I crossed the stage, where it was joined by a second spotlight.
Somehow I felt challenged. I walked back to stage center and bowed. With the spotlights in my face I couldn’t tell if anyone was out
Rachel found me some hours later in Harry’s New York Bar near the Opéra. Harry’s is dark polished woods and American voices and is the sort of place that tolerates quiet drunks, as long as they leave the other customers alone. I was a very quiet drunk. They probably thought I was crazy when I asked for saki, but the stuff works on me like a psychedelic, and I find it hard to worry when I have enough of it in me.
“You’re drunk,” Rachel said.
“Nobody’s perfect,” I told her.
“Did you find out anything about that guy who you say has been following you?”
“His name’s Tony Romagna.”
“Why is he following you?”
“Mr. Romagna didn’t seem fit to enlighten me as to that. Mr. Romagna said that he was in Paris to enjoy a brief vacation and look after a friend’s interests. Any of that mean anything to you?”
She shook her head. “It can’t have anything to do with me.”
“What about Alex?”
“How should I know? Did this Romagna say what he wanted?”
“Not a clue.”
Rachel frowned, bit her lower lip gently, and said “What do we do now?”
“We go for dinner,” I told her, “at La Dolce Vita on the Avenue des Ternes. Romagna said it was the best Italian food in Paris.”
“Big deal,” Rachel said. “I’m not in Paris to eat spaghetti for chrissakes.”
“It’s the only lead we’ve got,” I said. “If it is a lead, which it just might be.”
The food at Dolce Vita was quite good, as a matter of fact, though I’ll spare you the menu this time, except to mention that the cannellonis were exceptional. It was a night for confidences. But no one came over to our red-checkered tablecloth, leaned over the candle guttering in the Chianti bottle and said, “I have a tale to tell.” Not just then, anyhow. Nor did we have much to say to each other. Rachel seemed preoccupied, depressed. She seemed to have a hangnail on her left little finger, and she kept on biting at it.
We left around half past nine in the evening, by different cabs since we were going in different directions, Rachel to the Crillon in the Place de la Concorde, me to an evening in the cafés, and then back to the Cygne and to bed.
CLOVIS
15
It was a bright, beautiful morning when I left the Hôtel du Cygne to go to the casting call at the old Gaumont Studios in upper Montmartre. I decided that I really should conserve some of Rachel’s money, so instead of taking a taxi, I walked to the Châtelet Underground, then rode in a second-class car to Opéra, where I changed, then changed again at St-Lazare and finally got out at Lamarck Caulaincourt.
I caught glimpses of the beautiful basilica of the Sacré-Coeur as I walked down Caulaincourt to the entrance of the old Gaumont Studios, oldest in Europe, so I’ve heard.
From the outside the studio building resembled a cross between a fortress and a storage warehouse. The building was at the top of a steep hill. You left the shady plane trees of the boulevard and climbed up a series of steps to a steel mesh pedestrian bridge that crossed over to the Gaumont proper.
A receptionist took my name and told me where their casting call was being held. I walked down echoing corridors, past busy technicians doing esoteric things with tape reels. At last I came to the place where I was supposed to go.
Or at least I thought that was where I was supposed to go. I was on a huge sound stage. Low footlights illuminated the scene. The curtains had been pulled back, revealing a scattering of props: a mock-up of a cathedral door; a painted country meadow with river in background; a café set with real chairs and a zinc bar in the foreground.
As I crossed the stage, a spotlight came on from overhead and picked me up. It followed me as I crossed the stage, where it was joined by a second spotlight.
Somehow I felt challenged. I walked back to stage center and bowed. With the spotlights in my face I couldn’t tell if anyone was out
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