“Très brief. Not more than une heure.”
“Well, will you guarantee to have the car all ready when I come for it at noon to-morrow?”
“Je promise,” he said, and I drove back to the hotel.
Oh, Major, wait till you see that taxi bill!
Friday, September 14. Paris.
The traffic chief said that before he could examine me for a license I must show him my registration card from a regular police commissioner. I had been told I ought to have one of those darn things, but had passed it up. Now I was face to face with the necessity of acquiring the card and doing it quick. The nearest station was only a few blocks away. I found it jam-packed with people who looked as if they all worked in East St. Louis. I flagged an attendant.
“I want to register,” I told him.
“You’ll be called when it’s your turn,” he said, and gave me a number. It was 89,041.
“How long will I have to wait?”
He pondered.