There stood Kennedy arrayed in all the glory of a sharp-pointed
moustache and a goatee. He had put on evening clothes of
decidedly Parisian cut, clothes which he had used abroad and had
brought back with him, but which I had never known him to wear
since he came back. On a chair reposed a chimney-pot hat that
would have been pronounced faultless on the "continong," but was
unknown, except among impresarios, on Broadway.
Kennedy shrugged his shoulders--he even had the shrug.
"Figure to yourself, monsieur," he said. "Ze great Kennedy, ze
detectif Americain--to put it tersely in our own vernacular,
wouldn't it be a fool thing for me to appear at the Vesper Club
where I should surely be recognised by someone if I went in my
ordinary clothes and features? Un faux pas, at the start?
Jamais!"
There was nothing to do but agree, and I was glad that I had been
discreetly reticent about my companion in talking with the friend
who was to gain us entrance to the Avernus beyond the steel door.
We met my friend at the Riviera and dined sumptuously.
Fortunately he seemed decidedly impressed with my friend Monsieur
Kay--I could do no better on the spur of the moment than take
Kennedy's initial, which seemed to serve. We progressed amicably
from oysters and soup down to coffee, cigars, and liqueurs, and I
succeeded in swallowing Kennedy's tales of Monte Carlo and Ostend
and Ascot without even a smile.
Pages:
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368