“Who's Moki?”
“Moki Hadj is the lady in the salmon-colored dress,” said Henslowe, in a loud stage whisper in Andrews's ear. “They have a lion cub named Bubu.”
“Our first born,” said Heineman with a wave of the hand.
The streets were deserted. A thin ray of moonlight, bursting now and then through the heavy clouds, lit up low houses and roughly-cobbled streets and the flights of steps with rare dim lamps bracketed in house walls that led up to the Butte.
There was a gendarme in front of the door of the Lapin Agile. The street was still full of groups that had just come out, American officers and Y.M.C.A, women with a sprinkling of the inhabitants of the region.
“Now look, we're late,” groaned Heineman in a tearful voice.
“Never mind, Heinz,” said Henslowe, “le Guy'll take us to see de Clocheville like he did last time, n'est pas, le Guy?” Then Andrews heard him add, talking to a man he had not seen before, “Come along Aubrey, I'll introduce you later.”
They climbed further up the hill. There was a scent of wet gardens in the air, entirely silent except for the clatter of their feet on the cobbles. Heineman was dancing a sort of a jig at the head of the procession. They stopped before a tall cadaverous house and started climbing a rickety wooden stairway.
“Talk about inside dope.... I got this from a man who's actually in the room when the Peace Conference meets.” Andrews heard Aubrey's voice with a Chicago burr in the r's behind him in the stairs.
“Fine, let's hear it,” said Henslowe.