Chapter 1
IT WAS MY first day in Paris but the feeling was still with me: like I was getting ready to explode, as if my guts were a lit fuse racing up to my brain.
Being cooped up gets me that way, although I was camped in a big room in this swank hotel. Twelve bucks a night and it was the best hotel room I'd ever been in. I'd docked at Le Havre the afternoon before, came straight to this fancy joint from Gare St. Lazare, like they told me to. I had a swell suit of clothes, an expensive big suitcase, and looked like ready money - except I had exactly forty-seven bucks on me.
All I had to do was wait for a call, yet I was jumpy. I'd promoted a deal with one of the biggest guys in the American fight racket, and I was in Paris to put the cap on it - the deal I'd been sucking around on for over a half year. And when you got to butter up a goon like Slats, your nose is scraping the bottom of a dirty barrel.
I'd put away a big supper in the hotel restaurant, then was up early in the morning, waiting in my room. After moping around the room like a caged animal, I went down to the lobby and told the little clerk in the worn tux that I'd be at the corner cafe, on the Champs Elysees, and to send a bellhop on the run if I got a call. He gave me a bored bow, said in good English, "I will handle it, Monsieur Francine. If you'd care to hire a car?"
I wanted to tell him to stop playing me for a tourist, but I merely shook my head and walked out.
The cafe was one of these semi-sidewalk deals and I had two cups of coffee and some croissants, and smoked my pipe. It was only 9:15 am. I was still sitting there at 3 p.m., loaded with coffee and beer, watching the people walking by, spotting the Americans. I stared up the street at the Arc de Triomphe, wondered why anybody made a fuss about it. I watched the Frenchmen around me drinking - mainly by colors. They would drop in for a morning shot of something Irish green, or a copper-red drink, and of course the usual foggy Pernod - any of these drinks will knock your head off.
I hung around this cafe till my kidneys were floating; then I walked back to the hotel and on a wall in the side street there was a crude US - GO HOME sign painted with whitewash. I sat around the lobby for a long time and wondered why the hell Magano didn't contact me. He had to come up from Italy, but he knew when my ship docked.
I had supper again, picked up some English papers at the desk, along with my key. The clerk asked. "Perhaps tomorrow, you would like a bus tour of Paris, all the historic sights, and - "
"Stop the tourist bait," I said, and went up to my room. I stretched out on the bed and tried to read the Limey papers and gave that up. It was after nine and I wanted to see the night life, but couldn't chance missing my call. And Magano had better call soon. My bucks would only last a few days at these rates....
The phone rang and I jumped off the bed like a cat. The clerk said, "A woman to see you, Monsieur Francine. Shall I send her up?"
"A woman?" I repeated, wondering if this was more tourist bait.
"A Madame Allen. Shall I send her up?"
Genre: Mystery
IT WAS MY first day in Paris but the feeling was still with me: like I was getting ready to explode, as if my guts were a lit fuse racing up to my brain.
Being cooped up gets me that way, although I was camped in a big room in this swank hotel. Twelve bucks a night and it was the best hotel room I'd ever been in. I'd docked at Le Havre the afternoon before, came straight to this fancy joint from Gare St. Lazare, like they told me to. I had a swell suit of clothes, an expensive big suitcase, and looked like ready money - except I had exactly forty-seven bucks on me.
All I had to do was wait for a call, yet I was jumpy. I'd promoted a deal with one of the biggest guys in the American fight racket, and I was in Paris to put the cap on it - the deal I'd been sucking around on for over a half year. And when you got to butter up a goon like Slats, your nose is scraping the bottom of a dirty barrel.
I'd put away a big supper in the hotel restaurant, then was up early in the morning, waiting in my room. After moping around the room like a caged animal, I went down to the lobby and told the little clerk in the worn tux that I'd be at the corner cafe, on the Champs Elysees, and to send a bellhop on the run if I got a call. He gave me a bored bow, said in good English, "I will handle it, Monsieur Francine. If you'd care to hire a car?"
I wanted to tell him to stop playing me for a tourist, but I merely shook my head and walked out.
The cafe was one of these semi-sidewalk deals and I had two cups of coffee and some croissants, and smoked my pipe. It was only 9:15 am. I was still sitting there at 3 p.m., loaded with coffee and beer, watching the people walking by, spotting the Americans. I stared up the street at the Arc de Triomphe, wondered why anybody made a fuss about it. I watched the Frenchmen around me drinking - mainly by colors. They would drop in for a morning shot of something Irish green, or a copper-red drink, and of course the usual foggy Pernod - any of these drinks will knock your head off.
I hung around this cafe till my kidneys were floating; then I walked back to the hotel and on a wall in the side street there was a crude US - GO HOME sign painted with whitewash. I sat around the lobby for a long time and wondered why the hell Magano didn't contact me. He had to come up from Italy, but he knew when my ship docked.
I had supper again, picked up some English papers at the desk, along with my key. The clerk asked. "Perhaps tomorrow, you would like a bus tour of Paris, all the historic sights, and - "
"Stop the tourist bait," I said, and went up to my room. I stretched out on the bed and tried to read the Limey papers and gave that up. It was after nine and I wanted to see the night life, but couldn't chance missing my call. And Magano had better call soon. My bucks would only last a few days at these rates....
The phone rang and I jumped off the bed like a cat. The clerk said, "A woman to see you, Monsieur Francine. Shall I send her up?"
"A woman?" I repeated, wondering if this was more tourist bait.
"A Madame Allen. Shall I send her up?"
Genre: Mystery
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