“Did you tip them?” asked Mr. Gibbons.
“Certainly!” I snapped.
“I’ll bet I know,” said Mr. Gibbons. “You probably packed your own suitcase.”
He was right.
VI
How I Didn’t Drive Major Blank’s Car to Camp Such-and-Such
Monday, September 10. Paris.
The American major who owns the car which Mr. Kiley drove down from Le Havre, whither it had been sent by the man who bought it in London for the American major—well, anyway, this American major, he’s in the artillery camp at Such-and-Such, and he wants me to bring it down there for him. I’ve never handled, or, rather, footled one of the little birds, but it’s something everybody should learn, like French and auction and how to swim. Besides, I want to see the artillery camp. So I’m accepting the commission and intend to get busy tomorrow morning.
Tuesday, September 11. Paris.
With an American pass and an order for the car, I taxied to the United States army garage, in the Quai Debilly.
“Avez-vous fixed vous with passes?” inquired a friendly inmate of the garage.
I showed him my American card.
“That isn’t bien suffisant,” he said. “You’ll have to get a pink one to go through the French army zone.”
I recalled then our troubles on a previous automobile trip and was glad he had spoken.
“Where do I go for that?” I inquired.
“Go,” said he, “to the Préfet de Ligne du Communications.” Or something like that.
“Où is il?”
“I think he’s in the Rue François Premier.”
“And is the car all right?”
“I guess so. Nos haven’t looked at it yet.”
I had let my taxi go, and twenty minutes were spent in getting another. It was another hour before we located the préfet.
A secretary examined my passport and American pass and took my dossier:
Name, nationality, birthplace, age, ancestry, real purpose in coming to France. Hair—black; forehead—high; eyes—brown; nose—prominent; mouth—medium; chin—round; complexion—dark; height—six one and three-quarters. Sign here.
“Now,” said the sec., “monsieur will avez to come across avec a photophie.”
“I’m just out,” I said. “I’d no idea I’d be so popular.”
“Nos can issue no passes sans a photophie,” says he, so out I went in search of a rapid-fire studio.
The driver pulled up in front of a gallery on the Rue de la Paix, where the artist promised to have six copies of my map printed by midi.
To kill time I rode back to Billy’s rue.
“The car’s on the blink,” said my friend in French. “The connecting rod is lâche and some bearings are burned out. Besides, vous would be a rummy to partir on these tires.”
“Comme beaucoup new ones do je need?”
“Just plain quatre,” says he.
“Well,” says I, “put them on and get busy avec the reparations. I want to start away before dark.”
“Ah, oui,” says he, “but we have no tires and we have no tools to make the reparations avec.”
“Can’t you get them?”
“Vous devoir get them yourself.”
“Où?”
“At the branch factory of the ⸻,” and he said the name of the car right out loud.
“Où est le branch factory?”
“Il est in un suburb—Le Vallois-Perret. The address is 6163 Rue Corneille.”
“What tools are required?”
“Une roue-tirer et un offset clef à vis.”
Which means a wheel puller and an offset wrench.
“And can je aussi tires get there?”
“Ah, oui.”
It was noon, and my trusting driver and I returned to the studio on the Rue de la Paix. The pictures weren’t fini. They never are.
“Take me to Maxim’s,” says I, “and we’ll call it a half day.”
After lunch I walked back to the studio. The pictures were not fini, but would monsieur rester? Monsieur would. Monsieur rested till fourteen o’clock, got six photophies that had him looking more than ever like a German spy, and taxied back to the Rue François Premier. The préfet’s joint was closed.
I asked the driver how far it was out to Le Vallois-Perret.
“Come on,” he said, and I climbed in, but “come on,” in French, means “I don’t get you,” so I had to repeat the directions four or five times.
“Ah, oui,” he said at last. “Le Vallois-Perret. Quatorze kilomet’s.”
“What is that in American money?”
“Come on,” said the driver.
“Hotel Con-tin-en-tal,” I said.
I’ll tackle ’em afresh tomorrow morning.
Wednesday, September 12. Paris.
The préfet’s secretary approved my picture and gave me a beautiful salmon-colored pass. It is good for five days, which is plenty, as I will come back on the train.
At the city gates, en route to Le Vallois-Perret, my taxi and I were stopped and our essence measured. If we brought back more than we took out, we would have to pay taxes on the difference.
Quatorze kilomet’s was a very conservative estimate of the distance, and it was nearly eleven when we reached Cornelia’s rue and the branch factory.
An American heard my plea for four new tires, an offset wrench, and a wheel puller.
“It can’t be done,” he said. “All we do is own this place. But the French Government has taken it over and runs it.”
“But this is a United States army car,” I said, “and we’re supposed to be allies of the French.”
“Without special permission,” said he, “you stand as much chance as if you were the Crown Prince.”
“Where can I get special permission?”
“Your best bet is to see Captain Vandervelde. If anybody can fix it, he’s the boy. You’ll find him in the Passage de Haynau, Rue Croix Nivert.”
“What number?”
“There
