Clancy Detective

Half a second more, and the truck would have backed the little old man
out of existence. It was one of those traffic jams for which Paris is
famous, at the corner of the narrow Rue Caumartin. Caught between two
lines of taxicabs, oblivious of the truck coming at him from behind, with
everybody vociferously shouting at everybody else, the old chap stood
bewildered and hesitant, or so I thought.

Consequently, I made a grab for him, rushed him under the nose of a taxi,
and literally carried him to the sidewalk. There, to my surprise, he
turned on me savagely with a flood of French.

"Save your breath," I said. "I don't savvy half what you say, anyhow--"

His face lighted up and he switched into English.

"American, are you? Well, what the purgatory do you mean by assaulting me
that way?"

"Good Lord!" I exclaimed. "When a man saves your life, you jump on him!
In another--"

"Oh, you make me tired!" he snapped. "You're another fool tourist who
thinks this is America. Don't you know such things don't happen here?
They have jams, but accidents are rare, and they never run over anyone
except--"

"Suit yourself," I told him. "In another jiffy you'd have been the
exception, that's all."

He laughed suddenly and put out his hand. "Thanks," he said. "I was
thinking about something, to tell the truth. Perhaps you're right. Allow
me--"

He extended a card. I read: "Peter J. Clancy, D.D.S.," and then heard the
suggestion that we have a drink. I assented.

"Sorry I haven't a card, Doc," I said. "My finances haven't extended that
far yet. I came over here to take a newspaper job, got done out of it,
and am on my way to book steerage home again. Here's a cafe. My name's
Jim Logan."

We strolled into the cafe and ordered a drink, and I took stock of
Clancy.

He was a queer duck. He was small, about five foot five in his boots, and
had long gray hair and a gray imperial. His clothes were black once,
perhaps, but now they were greenish and frayed; he wore the red ribbon of
the Legion in his buttonhole. His face was wrinkled--kindly, shrewd
wrinkles, they were--and his eyes were very bright, of a piercing gray.
He wore the wide-brimmed black felt hat of the Parisian, and looked as
French as they make them.

"Glad to meet you, Logan," he said. "I've lived here fifteen years, and
sometimes I get pretty homesick. So you're going back steerage, eh?"

"Anyway at all," I said, sipping my Rossi. "This is the land of liberty,
all right, but what I need is a job and not liberty."

"Very well," he said, with a nod. "I'll give you a job--if you can tell
me the difference between a Sydney View and a Saint Helena grilled."

* * *

For a moment he had me stumped, until I saw in his eyes that he was
earnest enough, and deadly serious. Then I laughed. If this was a test,
he had chosen it just right for me!

"The difference would be about a hundred dollars, if both were in good
condition," I said. "Or, the difference between high value and
worthlessness, as you prefer."

"Good!" he exclaimed. "Then you collect stamps?"

"I don't," I told him frankly. "But I used to. And I know a good deal
about 'em. Do you?"

"Everybody in France does," he said. "Bless my soul, this is
providential, Logan! Do you know, I'm really in need of you? Can you
speak French?"

"Army French," I said. "I can understand it perfectly, but I'm no
linguist."

"Better and better! And I perceive you're something of a boxer, from the
way you handled your feet. You're powerful, you have a good brain, and
you're not afraid to look at a dead man, or you'd not be in the newspaper
game. I can use all these qualities."

"How?" I asked, rather amused, to tell the truth. "Pulling molars?"

"No." He glanced at his watch and paid for the drinks, with a careful
French tip. "We've got time--just. Have you a pencil? Give me that card
of mine."

I gave him card and pencil. He scribbled a few words in French and
returned them to me.