V
THE FAMOUS MAX CADOLI had made a few purchases at the Artists’ Materials shop in the Rue des Belges and had turned towards the Croisette, when a familiar sight gladdened my eyes. It was an old yellow five horse-power Citroën surmounted and dominated by the vast hat, flowing cloak and white pointed beard of Tombarel. The sight was pleasantly familiar. But what gave the familiar sight additional interest was the presence of a passenger who bulged out at the other side of the car. As soon as he saw me, Tombarel raised both hands in greeting, while the docile car went on, nearly slaughtering a boy on a bicycle, until, by a trick of legerdemain, and with a nerve-racking scrunch of brakes and gears and everything that can discompose an automobile, it drew up dead beside me.
He took off his h
