“I heard you asking the tin lid something in French. Whadhesay?”
“Said that gink in the Renault is the head cop of Noyon,” I answered at random.
“GOODNIGHT. Maybe we’d better ring off, or you’ll get in wrong with”—he indicated t-d with a wave of his head that communicated itself to the car in a magnificent skid; and t-d’s derby rang out as the skid pitched t-d the length of the F.I.A.T.
“You rang the bell then,” I commented—then to t-d: “Nice car for the wounded to ride in,” I politely observed. T-d answered nothing….
Noyon.
We drive straight up to something which looks unpleasantly like a feudal dungeon. The driver is now told to be somewhere at a certain time, and meanwhile to eat with the Head Cop, who may be found just around the corner—(I am doing the translating for t-d)—and, oh yes, it seems that the Head Cop has particularly requested the pleasure of this distinguished American’s company at déjeuner.
“Does he mean me?” the driver asked innocently.
“Sure,” I told him.
Nothing is said of B. or me.
Now, cautiously, t-d first and I a slow next, we descend. The F.I.A.T. rumbles off, with the distinguished one’s backward-glaring head poked out a yard more or less and that distinguished face so completely surrendered to mystification as to cause a large laugh on my part.