Free The Night Watch by Patrick Modiano Page A

them, along with their identification photos, are on file at 177 Avenue Niel. Having said this, Monsieur Philibert hands us a glass of champagne. We toast our success. We will be – it seems – kings of Paris. The Khedive pats my cheek and slips a roll of bills into my inside pocket. The two men talk amongst themselves, review the files and the appointment books, make a few calls. Now and then I hear a burst of voices. Impossible to tell what is being said. I go into the adjoining room, which we use as our ‘clients’ waiting room. Here they would sit in the battered leather chairs. On the walls, a few colour prints of grape picking. A sideboard and assorted pine furniture. Beyond the far door, another room with an en-suite bathroom. I would regularly stay back at night to put the files in order. I worked in the waiting room. No one would ever guess that this apartment housed a detective agency. It was previously occupied by a retired couple. I drew the curtains. Silence. Flickering light. A smell of withered things. ‘Dreaming,
mon petit
?’ The Khedive laughs and adjusts his hat in the mirror. We go through the waiting room. In the hall, Monsieur Philibert snaps on a flashlight. We are having a house-warming tonight at 3
bis
Cimarosa Square. The owners have fled. We have taken over their house. A cause for celebration. Hurry. Our friends are waiting for us at L’Heure Mauve, a cabaret club on the Champs-Élysées . . .
    The following week the Khedive orders me to gather information for the ‘agency’ on the activities of a certain Lieutenant Dominique. We received a memorandum on him with his address, a photo, and the comment: ‘Keep under surveillance’. I have to find some way of introducing myself to the man. I go to his house at 5 rue Boisrobert, in the 15th
arrondissement
. A modest little building. The Lieutenant himself answers the door. I ask for Mr Henri Normand. He tells me I’ve made a mistake. Then I blurt out my whole story: I’m an escaped POW. A friend said that if I ever managed to escape, I should get in touch with Monsieur Normand, 5 rue Boisrobert. He would keep me safe. My comrade had clearly given me the wrong address. I don’t know a soul in Paris. I have no money. I don’t know where to turn. He studies me thoughtfully. I squeeze out a couple of tears to convince him. Next thing I know I’m in his office. In a deep, clear voice he tells me that a boy my age should not let himself be discouraged by the catastrophe that has beset our country. He is still weighing me up. Then, suddenly, he asks: ‘Do you want to work with us?’ He is head of a group of ‘tremendous’ guys. Many of them escaped prisoners like myself. Boys from Saint-Cyr Military Academy. Regular officers. A handful of civilians. All raring to go. The best of the best. We are waging a covert war against the powers of evils that have temporarily triumphed. A daunting task, but to brave hearts nothing is impossible. Goodness, Freedom, and Moral Standards will soon be re-established. Lieutenant Dominique swears as much. I don’t share his optimism. I’m thinking about the report I’ll need to turn in to the Khedive this evening at Square Cimarosa. The Lieutenant gives me a few other facts: he refers to the group as CKS, the Company of the Knights of the Shadows. There is no way they can fight out in the open. This is a subterranean war. We will constantly be hunted. All the members of the group have taken the name of a métro station as a code name. He will introduce them to me shortly: Saint-Georges. Obligado. Corvisart. Pernety. There are more. As for me, I will be known as the ‘Princesse de Lamballe’. Why ‘Princesse de Lamballe’? A whim of the Lieutenant. ‘Are you prepared to join our network? Honour demands it. You should not hesitate for a moment. So – what’s your answer?’ I reply: ‘Yes,’ in a hesitant voice. ‘Don’t ever waver, lad. I know that these are sad times. Thugs and gangsters are