"What is your business in America?"
"I am a plumber, now retired."
"And your business here?"
"Simply pleasure."
"You are forty?" said the officer, referring to the passports.
"Yes."
"This is rather young to retire from business."
"Not in America," easily.
"True, everybody grows rich there, with gold mines popping open at one's
feet. It must be a great country." The officer sighed as he refolded the
documents. "As soon as these are approved by his excellency the American
consul, kindly have a porter bring them over to the bureau of police. It
will be only a matter of form. I shall return them at once."
Grumbach produced a Louis Napoleon which was then as now acceptable that
side of the Rhine. It was not done with pomposity, but rather with the
exuberance of a man whose purse and letter of credit possess an assuring
circumference.
"Drink a bottle, you and your comrade," he said.
This the officer promised to do forthwith. He returned the passports,
put a hand to his cap respectfully and, followed by his assistant,
walked off briskly.
Grumbach took off his derby and wiped the perspiration from his
forehead. This moisture had not been wrung forth by any atmospheric
effect. From the top of his forehead to the cowlick on the back of his
head ran a broad white scar.
Pages:
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85