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fort. Stop on Queen Street, near Air India.”
    “The traffic makes it difficult to park there.”
    “We’ll find a place. See to it.”
    Mr. Dhapura drove with care through Colombo’s seething traffic, weaving the little car quickly among the pillarbox-red double-decker buses. He seemed calmer behind the familiar wheel of his car.
    “You do seem to be in grave trouble, sir.”
    “What do you know about it?”
    “Nothing, except that obviously someone is after you, someone very determined to kill you. This affair of Ira Sanderson’s kidnapping must be more important than you thought.”
    “Yes.”
    “May I ask why Washington did not answer your emergency call?”
    “I’m persona non grata,” Durell told him.
    “Sir, that is not possible. I do not meet many men like you, men who have been forged, so to speak, in the fires of your profession.” Mr. Dhapura seemed pleased with his speech. “You could not have done anything wrong. I have an instinct for people, sir, my wife always says so, I rarely make an error in judging personality and character. To me, if I may say so, you are an exemplar of your business. I would trust you with my life, sir.”
    “You may have to,” Durell said simply.
    In the general post office, amid Colombo’s smart new business buildings, Durell asked the Sinhala to stand watch in the center of the crowded floor, and then went to a pay phone, and went through the complicated business of placing an overseas call to Geneva, Switzerland. Monsieur Fouquier, the manager of the Suisse Banque Canton-ale de Geneve, would be just starting his business day in his office overlooking the gleaming Lac Leman, with its towering fountain. Durell had met the man twice on other occasions involving K Section business. He knew he certainly did not have a numbered account with M. Fouquier.
    He waited with some impatience while the operators whispered, chanted, and crooned their lexicon of formal signals. Luckily there was no extraordinary delay. The overseas cables were clear. He watched for ten minutes from the phone box while Mr. Dhapura nervously paced the crowded post office floor. Then at last the crisp tones of the Swiss banker reached him.
    “Oui, monsieur?”
    “This is Durell. Sam Durell.”
    There was a pause. “Ah?”
    “Do you remember me?”
    “But certainly, m’sieu .”
    “It seems I’ve done business with you recently.”
    “On the second of March, yes, M’sieu Durell.”
    “My account is in order?”
    “But of course, m’sieu .”
    “You remember the total balance?”
    “Precisely one half-million in American dollars, yes.” “You are certain?”
    “ M’sieu , do you question my memory?”
    “No, Fouquier, I question the individual who opened that account in my name.”
    “But it was you, M’sieu Durell!”
    “Did I do so in person?”
    “I saw you in the bank from a distance that day. Unfortunately, I was hurried by a luncheon appointment. But you waved to me, I bowed, and later I learned the nature and purpose of your business.”
    “You saw me?” Durell asked.
    “Certainly, M’sieu. ”
    “It is true,” Durell said, “that I was in Geneva at that time. But I did not visit your bank. You couldn’t be mistaken?”
    The telephone was silent for so long that Durell thought the overseas connection had been broken. Then, “But I have your signature before me at this moment. Please, can you tell me where you are? Your government—” There was another pause. “I could have your signature expertised, of course, but I do not understand. We are not anxious, m’sieu, to have another scandal in our banking system. You understand that such publicity works most adversely in our direction. No, there is no doubt.” M. Fouquier’s voice was firm. “I saw you. It is your signature.” 
    “Merci,” Durell said.
    He hung up.
    Dhapura hurried toward him like a leaf blown before a tempestuous wind. “There are police at the main doors, sir.”
    “We’ll go out the