“Acting in a manner contrary to the public good? Isn't there some sort of charge like that?”
“I am not sure, M’sieur. I’ll look it up.” The inspector reached behind him and took a large, thick book down from the shelf there.
“After all, this man virtually tortured a plane-load of passengers.”
“I am looking it up, M’sieur.”
“Very well.” The pilot stood on one leg. Then he switched to the other. Then back to the first. Finally he crossed his legs, but that didn’t seem to help either. His problem was obvious, and finally he could stand it no longer. “Excuse me,” he said to the inspector, “but do you have a men’s room in this place?”
“Through that door.” The inspector pointed without raising his eyes from the book of jurisprudence he was perusing.
The pilot bolted through the door. When he was gone, the inspector raised his head and looked at me over his spectacles. “You do not look like a criminal, M’sieur,” he observed.
“I’m not. It’s really just a misunderstanding.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. In either case, you are in a position to render me a service.”
“What do you mean?”
“All of this is having a terrible effect on my ulcers. You would be doing me a great favor if you would simply turn around and go out by the door through which you entered before our Italian complainant returns. You see, I really don’t feel up to finding a law which might pertain to your conduct. Really, heinous as it appears to be, I don’t believe there is a statute covering it. Perhaps it is time to revise our codes to cover it. I may even do a paper on it. But at some later time. Right now, why don’t you just depart, M’sieur?"
“With pleasure. And thank you." I left.
I didn’t relish the prospect of going back to the airport for my luggage, so I hired a taxi driver to take the baggage check and claim it for me. He met me at the hotel where I had made reservations and surrendered the bags to the bell- boy. I followed the bellboy up to my room.
A nap, a shave, a bath, a change of clothes, and I felt more human. I went down to the bar and had a drink. I followed up a second one, with dinner in the hotel dining room. It was mid-evening by then and I decided it was time to get back to work.
I started at the logical place, the Rue de la Boite in Montmartre. The street was right out of Zola with backdrops by Utrillo. Picturesque and erotic, right down to the garbage in the street. Much of the garbage was human. It dribbled in and out of the gin mills and strip joints and small, bordello-ish hotels which lined the street. It smeared over me as I passed, whispering in my ear, tugging at me intimately, pawing from groin to wallet-pocket and back. The word was out that a rich-looking American tourist had wandered into the street, and the jeunes filles were up off their butts in a jiffy and primping to attract the sucker.
I ignored them. I was looking to find Françoise Laval. And to do that, I figured I’d first have to find her boy friend Pierre. So he was the one I started making inquiries about.
A bar seemed a likely place to begin. As likely as any, anyway. I ordered a drink and laid a fifty-franc note on the bar. When the bartender put the glass down in front of me, I pushed the bill toward him. “Any idea where I can find Pierre?” I asked him.
“Pierre who?” He didn’t waste any time pocketing the money.
“I don’t know his last name. He—umm--handles a few girls. Willing girls, if you know what I mean."
“I know what you mean, M’sieur,” he said noncommittally.
“Well, do you know where I might find him?”
“For what purpose, M’sieur?” he asked cagily.
“I want to make use of his services.” I did my best to blush in typical American tourist fashion.
“I see. And how do I know that you are not a police spy? Then you would arrest Pierre and myself also as an accomplice.”
“Don’t be silly. I’m an American.”
“Perhaps. You look like an American. You talk like an American. But that could be just an excellent police disguise."
“That’s ridiculous,” I told him.
“Then prove to me that you are an American.”
“How?”
He thought a moment. “I will ask you questions. You know, like in the war movies when they discover the Nazi infiltrator because he doesn’t know who won the 1944 World Series.”
“All right,” I sighed.
“Very well.” He took a deep breath. “Who won the 1944 World Series?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” I admitted. “That was many years ago, and anyway, I’m not much of a baseball fan.”
“And you call yourself an American? All Americans are baseball fans!”
“No, they’re not!”
“They’re not?”
“No."
“Oh.” He pondered this revelation. “Well then, we’ll try politics,” he decided finally. “Who is your congressman?"
“Gee, I really just don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember?” He stared at me with increasing suspicion.
“Wait! Yes I do,” I said desperately. “Phineas W. Throttlebottom, Twenty-seventh Congressional District.”
“That sounds right,” he, granted, “but how can I be sure? After all, M’sieur, how would I know anything about some obscure American representative?”
“Then why did you ask me?” I was beginning to get annoyed.
“I thought you might trip yourself up. Look, just one more question. About movies. You go to the movies, don’t you? After all, all Americans go to the movies.”
“I go to the movies,” I admitted.
“Who played the college football player Bolinski in Rise and Shine with Betty Grable and George Murphy?” His tone said he knew he'd stumped me now.
But he hadn’t. “Jack Oakie,” I told him blithely. “Now will you tell me where I can find Pierre?”
“My congratulations, M’sieur!” He grabbed my hand across the bar and wrung it as if he expected it to give milk. “You really are an American!”
“Yeah. Now, about this Pierre—”
“What did you say, M’sieur?"
“Pierre--?”
“I beg your pardon?” He cupped his hand to his ear.
“I’m trying to find Pierre.”
He stuck his finger in his ear and wiggled it around. “I am so sorry, M’sieur, but I seem to be having the difficulty with the hearing.
I' got the message. “Where can I find Pierre?” I slid another fifty-franc note across the bar, and it vanished under his apron. “Can you hear me now?” I added.
“Like a bell, M’sieur. You are crystal-clear and your tones are dulcet.”
“Never mind that! What about Pierre?”
“Pierre. Oui. I do not know where he is.”
“Then give me back my fifty francs, you thief!“ I exploded and grabbed him by his shirt-front.
“Please, M’sieur! No hands, I beg you. No hands! I do know someone who can direct you to Pierre. His name is Jean. He works as a waiter at the Calypso Cafe down the street.”
Somewhat mollified, I let him go. “This Jean had better know more than you do,” I told him grimly. “Or I’ll come back here and take it out of your hide.”
“American savage!” he spat after me as I left. “Yankee fascist! Nazi! To hell with Barry Goldwater2 !”
“You’ll have to do better than that if you want to insult me,” I flung back at him.
The Calypso Cafe was a strip joint. The hatcheck girl pointed out Jean the waiter to me. I waited and caught him between tables.
“Where can I find Pierre the procurer?” I asked him when I buttonholed him.
“Who wants to know?” he snarled by way of reply.
I was damned if I was going to go through that again! “This does.” I pushed a hundred francs into his hand.