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Reeves did favors quickly and for no charge. “I’d say yes, old pal, but Heloise and I are going to Tangier in a few days and traveling on from there.”
    “Tangier! Fine! There’s time, if I express it. It’ll come to your house maybe tomorrow. No problem. I’ll get it off today. Then you send it on—from wherever you’re going to be in four or five days from now.”
    They’d still be in Tangier, Tom supposed. “Okay, Reeves. In principle.” Tom had unconsciously lowered his voice, as if someone might be trying to eavesdrop, but Heloise was still at the keyboard. “It’ll be Tangier. Do you trust the post from there? I’ve been warned—about slowness.”
    Reeves gave his dry laugh, which Tom knew well. “There’s nothing like The Satanic Verses on this one—in this one. Please, Tom.”
    “All right—what is it, exactly?”
    “Not saying. Not now. Weighs hardly an ounce.”
    They hung up within seconds after that. Tom wondered if the addressee was to post it to another intermediary. Reeves had always cherished the theory, maybe self-created, that the more hands something passed through, the safer it was. Reeves was a fence, essentially, and loved his work. Fencing—what a word. Rather, to act as a fence had a make-believe charm for Reeves, as hide-and-seek games had for children. Tom had to admit that Reeves Minot up to now had been successful. He worked alone—at least, he was always alone in his Altona apartment, and had survived a bombing there, aimed at his apartment, too, and survived whatever it was that had given him a five-inch-long scar down his right cheek.
    Back to the brochures, and Casablanca next. There were some ten folders on his bed. Tom thought of the express arriving. He was sure he would not have to sign for it; Reeves was shy about registering anything, so anyone at the house could receive it.
    Then, this evening, drinks with the Pritchards at 6 p.m. Past 11 a.m. now, and he ought to confirm. What to say to Heloise ?
    He didn’t want her to know he was going to visit the Pritchards, first because he didn’t want to take her there, and to complicate things didn’t want to state, plainly, to Heloise that he felt protective of her and didn’t want her near those oddballs.
    Tom went downstairs, intending to take a turn around the lawn, and perhaps beg a coffee of Mme Annette, if she were in the kitchen.
    Heloise stood up from the beige harpsichord and stretched. “Cheri, Noelle telephoned while you were talking with Henri. She would like to come for dinner tonight, maybe stay the night. Is that all right?”
    “But of course, my sweet. Certainly.” It had happened before, Tom thought, Noelle Hassler ringing up and inviting herself. She was pleasant, and Tom had nothing against her. “I hope you said yes.”
    “I did. La pauvre—” Heloise started to laugh. “A certain man—Noelle should never have thought he was serious! He was not nice to her.”
    Walked out, Tom supposed. “So she’s depressed?”
    “Oh, not much, not for long. She is not driving, so I pick her up at Fontainebleau. The station.”
    “What time?”
    “Around seven. I shall check the timetable.”
    Tom was relieved, or slightly relieved. He decided to come out with the truth. “This morning, believe it or not, an invitation came from the Pritchards—you know, the American pair. For us to come for a drink around six tonight. Do you mind if I go—alone—just to learn a little more about them?”
    “No-o,” said Heloise, sounding and looking like a teenager instead of someone in her thirties. “Why should I? And you are back for dinner?”
    Tom smiled. “You can be sure of that.”

Chapter 4

    Tom decided after all to cut three dahlias and take them to the Pritchards. He had confirmed his acceptance of their invitation at noon, and Janice Pritchard had sounded pleased. Tom had said he would come alone, as his wife had to fetch a friend from the station around six.
    So at a few minutes past six,