He reached Le Havre last Saturday afternoon. He had in his pockets no papers except an order for the car. He had been in Le Havre about two minutes when a gentleman attacked him from behind with a tap on the shoulder. The gentleman pulled back his coat lapel and flashed a star bearing the insignia of the British Intelligence Department. He was curious as to Mr. Kiley’s name and business. Mr. Kiley told him. Then he wanted to see Mr. Kiley’s papers. Mr. Kiley showed him the order for the car.
“I’m afraid that won’t do,” said the officer. “I’d advise you to leave town.”
“Give me just an hour,” pleaded Mr. Kiley, “just time enough to get the car and get out.”
“All right,” said the officer, “and be sure it’s only an hour.”
Mr. Kiley hastened to where the car was reposing, displayed the order, and started joyously to wind her up. He cranked and he cranked and he cranked. Nothing doing. He gave her a push downhill and tried to throw her into speed. Nothing doing. It occurred to him that something must be the matter. A thorough examination resulted in a correct diagnosis. There was no gas.
Next to getting a drink of ice-water in Paris, the hardest job for a stranger is buying gasoline in any French town. Mr. Kiley was turned down five times before eighteen o’clock, when all the garages closed for the day.
He registered at a hotel and went into the café for dinner. He was just picking up the carte du jour when his friend, the officer, horned in.
“Mr. Kiley,” says this guy, “you have been in town more than an hour.”
“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Kiley. “But I’ve had trouble. I found my car, but I can’t run it because there’s no essence.”
“I think you’d better leave town,” said the officer.