Read Online The Adventures of Hiram Holliday by Paul Gallico - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Paul Gallico
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own umbrella, though the one he had was so similar, in fact, almost identical, that it was not surprising a mistake should have been made. But it felt different, and looked different. And when he suddenly opened it and examined the steel ferrule he was certain. Because it was clean and shining and there had been a stain on his, a stain that he cherished greatly, since it had been acquired when he had driven it through the mouth of the unpleasant Nazi with a scar on his face, in London.
Hiram thought first of returning to the shop, because his umbrella had become very dear to him, but, of course, the gentleman with the spade beard would long since have gone. He was irritated at his loss, and gave the handle of the umbrella an exasperated twist so that something clicked and came loose, and he held in his hand the wooden crook and eighteen inches of sword steel, razor sharp, needle-pointed and channelled down the centre. It was discoloured slightly, and Hiram noted with a sudden catch of his breath that it was the same kind of stain that was on the ferrule of his lost umbrella.
'Now what the devil,' he said to himself, 'would a nice, polite old gentleman like that be doing with a pretty thing like this?'
He examined it with more interest. He had heard of French sword canes, so why not, indeed, sword umbrellas, too ? It was a terrible weapon. He tried the temper of the blade and fingered it carefully. He was unaware that the driver had drawn up in front of Notre Dame and had stopped and was waiting stolidly, because he was interested in the way the blade was set into the handle, and holding it carefully he twisted and pulled gently near the top. It gave a little, so he pressed and twisted and it came away smoothly and showed the haft ingeniously embedded in a ring and socket. He thrust his finger up into the hollow wooden handle and found it entering what seemed to be a small cardboard cylinder that was loose and came out when he pulled. The cylinder had a double wall with the inside one loose, and it came away when he tugged at it gently. Inside there was a roll of a half-dozen sheets of delicate onion-skin paper covered with fine writing, but he was unable to read it, as it was in a language that was quite foreign to him. He judged it to be Russian, though part of it seemed to be in German. There was also a long list of names, and at the end a signature that struck him as vaguely familar, not in writing, but in the name.
'Oh, no. No,' said Hiram Holliday to himself. 'It is not possible. It doesn't happen. The papers ... the secret compartment ... the deadly weapon....'
'C'est Notre Dame, m’sieu’ said the taxi-driver.
'Yes, yes,' said Hiram, but sat with the sheets between his fingers. The signature,' Vinovarieff.' Where had he heard ... ? The light broke. It was the Russian general who had disappeared. And Mikoff, a name that appeared in one of the lists.... The Soviet under-secretary who had been stabbed to death in his home by an unknown assassin. Vorolich - the Soviet Ambassador upon whose life an attempt had been made. The stain on the blade ? Was that all that remained today of the murdered Mikoff? What was in those papers ? At which point Hiram Holliday folded them and put them into his pocket. He returned the empty cardboard cylinder into the hollow of the handle and snapped the blade back into place, and then returned it to its sheath in the shaft of the umbrella. The obvious thing to do was to find out.
Now there is one thing that working on a newspaper for many years, no matter in what department, does for a man. It makes him intensely direct and practical when it comes to finding things out. From another pocket Hiram pulled a small guide-book and directory of Paris and consulted it and gave an address to the taxi-driver in the rue des Jeuneurs. When he arrived there he told the man to wait.
There was a large sign painted across the upper windows of the building: 'Demoisson School of Languages.' Hiram went
Hiram thought first of returning to the shop, because his umbrella had become very dear to him, but, of course, the gentleman with the spade beard would long since have gone. He was irritated at his loss, and gave the handle of the umbrella an exasperated twist so that something clicked and came loose, and he held in his hand the wooden crook and eighteen inches of sword steel, razor sharp, needle-pointed and channelled down the centre. It was discoloured slightly, and Hiram noted with a sudden catch of his breath that it was the same kind of stain that was on the ferrule of his lost umbrella.
'Now what the devil,' he said to himself, 'would a nice, polite old gentleman like that be doing with a pretty thing like this?'
He examined it with more interest. He had heard of French sword canes, so why not, indeed, sword umbrellas, too ? It was a terrible weapon. He tried the temper of the blade and fingered it carefully. He was unaware that the driver had drawn up in front of Notre Dame and had stopped and was waiting stolidly, because he was interested in the way the blade was set into the handle, and holding it carefully he twisted and pulled gently near the top. It gave a little, so he pressed and twisted and it came away smoothly and showed the haft ingeniously embedded in a ring and socket. He thrust his finger up into the hollow wooden handle and found it entering what seemed to be a small cardboard cylinder that was loose and came out when he pulled. The cylinder had a double wall with the inside one loose, and it came away when he tugged at it gently. Inside there was a roll of a half-dozen sheets of delicate onion-skin paper covered with fine writing, but he was unable to read it, as it was in a language that was quite foreign to him. He judged it to be Russian, though part of it seemed to be in German. There was also a long list of names, and at the end a signature that struck him as vaguely familar, not in writing, but in the name.
'Oh, no. No,' said Hiram Holliday to himself. 'It is not possible. It doesn't happen. The papers ... the secret compartment ... the deadly weapon....'
'C'est Notre Dame, m’sieu’ said the taxi-driver.
'Yes, yes,' said Hiram, but sat with the sheets between his fingers. The signature,' Vinovarieff.' Where had he heard ... ? The light broke. It was the Russian general who had disappeared. And Mikoff, a name that appeared in one of the lists.... The Soviet under-secretary who had been stabbed to death in his home by an unknown assassin. Vorolich - the Soviet Ambassador upon whose life an attempt had been made. The stain on the blade ? Was that all that remained today of the murdered Mikoff? What was in those papers ? At which point Hiram Holliday folded them and put them into his pocket. He returned the empty cardboard cylinder into the hollow of the handle and snapped the blade back into place, and then returned it to its sheath in the shaft of the umbrella. The obvious thing to do was to find out.
Now there is one thing that working on a newspaper for many years, no matter in what department, does for a man. It makes him intensely direct and practical when it comes to finding things out. From another pocket Hiram pulled a small guide-book and directory of Paris and consulted it and gave an address to the taxi-driver in the rue des Jeuneurs. When he arrived there he told the man to wait.
There was a large sign painted across the upper windows of the building: 'Demoisson School of Languages.' Hiram went
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