Let the Tiger Die by Manning Coles

Author:Manning Coles
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

The Disappointed Taxi Driver

Arcache walked away from the Green Monkey very pleased with himself. Wenezky could be induced to give him three times what the Austin was worth, he had bargained for the Bugatti at a third of its value, and the difference would go into his pocket besides—one hoped—a gift from Wenezky for finding the Austin, another from Hyde for finding the Bugatti, and a percentage of the Bugatti’s price from the garage proprietor. Very, very good. His heart sang and he dropped into a homely brasserie to stand himself another one or two on the strength of it. Then he went along to the Horn of Roland to tell Wenezky that matters were in train.

“The guest is out,” said the hunchback behind the bar.

“Out! So late in the evening? With his delicacy of the chest!”

The hunchback looked faintly amused but said nothing and went on polishing glasses.

“Very few patrons here tonight,” said Arcache amiably.

“Presently, perhaps,” said the landlord. “What will you take?”

“A small glass of something until the guest returns.”

The landlord served him and turned away to attend to one or two customers who had come in. They stood together at the far end of the bar and talked in low tones; Arcache took his glass to a small table, rolled himself a cigarette and waited. Time passed; the clock struck eight; more time passed. Customers, in twos and threes, came and went, but no Wenezky. Arcache got up suddenly and went back to the bar.

“I am uneasy about my patron,” he said. “He has been ill, this place is strange to him, it is now dark, and the night air is dangerous.”

“No need,” said the hunchback. “The guest is among friends.”

“But he knows no one here, he told me so.”

“He is among friends,” repeated the landlord.

“But two days ago he would not venture out in the midday sun without scarves in profusion and gloves upon his hands,” objected Arcache. “Now, upon the mountains he goes out in the middle of the night!” The prospect of his golden deal disappearing in an attack of pneumonia was almost more than he could bear.

“Be at ease.” said the hunchback coldly. “Twenty-one hours is not the middle of the night by any reckoning.”

“But the night—”

“But—but—” mimicked the hunchback. “Go and sit down or go home to bed!”

Arcache blinked, hesitated and ordered another glass. He retired to his table again and prepared to wait indefinitely.

At a quarter to ten there were footsteps outside, the door opened and most of the men who had been there the night before streamed in together. In the midst of them came Wenezky, hatless, with his black hair falling into his eyes, his face flushed and animated, his coat unbuttoned and his shirt open at the throat. Arcache stared; it was no exaggeration to say that he hardly recognized the man. Wenezky, however, was talking, and there was no mistaking that extraordinary accent. “Thus we did in Warsaw,” he was saying, when he caught sight of Arcache and stopped.

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