The stout redfaced man in a derby hat was Congo. “Sit down Meester ’Erf.... Very pleas’ to see you. Where were you going?”
“I wasnt going anywhere in particular.” “Come up to the house, I want to show you someting. Ow are you today?”
“Oh fine; no I mean I’m in a rotten mess, but it’s all the same.”
“Tomorrow maybe I go to jail ... six mont’ ... but maybe not.” Congo laughed in his throat and straightened carefully his artificial leg.
“So they’ve nailed you at last, Congo?”
“Conspiracy.... But no more Congo Jake, Meester ’Erf. Call me Armand. I’m married now; Armand Duval, Park Avenue.”
“How about the Marquis des Coulommiers?”
“That’s just for the trade.”
“So things look pretty good do they?”
Congo nodded. “If I go to Atlanta which I ’ope not, in six mont’ I come out of jail a millionaire.... Meester ’Erf if you need money, juss say the word.... I lend you tousand dollars. In five years even you pay it back. I know you.”