“Don’t you suppose some of these officers tickle the kitty?” I asked, adopting the slang phrase for contributing.
He laughed at that and gave me his reasons for believing that she was not that wanton. “She’s too high brow, too much the social woman, to let herself be under obligations to any man. It would cramp her style and sooner or later ruin her. Anyway, if she were selling it, she’d concentrate on one at a time for better results: but you see she is on good terms with dozens of men all at once.... No, that’s not the explanation. There’s some other source of income. And that source of income is doubtless the outlet for her information, so if you get any hint of a connection of any kind, we’ll play our hunch and follow it to the end. Beginning to-morrow, it’s up to you. You can tell her how busy I am and so forth, just to keep the story straight. And I’ll get in touch with you around noontime each day.”
“All right,” I agreed, and we turned our attention to a group of soldiers at a near-by table who were beginning to warm up for a song. They were singing verses from the famous “Parley Vous” song. I can only repeat a few—but then, you probably know the rest, anyway:
“Mademoiselle from Aix-la-bains,
Parley-vous?
Mademoiselle from Aix-la-bains,
Parley-vous?
Mademoiselle from Aix-la-bains,
She gave the Yankees shootin’ pains!
Hinky dinky parley-vous?