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and withdrew a piece of paper which he thrust into Picard’s hand. A tiny chime sounded somewhere in the room, and the butler entered.
    “This way, Monsieur Fanjoy,” he said, leading his guest back into the dimly lit corridor.
    “One moment,” said Picard, stopping beneath a lamp. He opened the piece of paper.
     
    PAUL PICARD—THE SPY WILL DIE
     
    The butler opened the door to the parlor and Picard stepped through. The puppet, Monsieur Fanjoy, was completely gone, relegated to the everlasting scrap heap of punctured disguises. Picard tried to get his bearings, felt ridiculous, a laughing-stock.
    He saw the host, then, leaning against a window in the corner of the room, withdrawn from the guests. Picard went toward him, the swift poison of anger spreading through his veins. He wanted to break a few things apart, among them, Lazare’s neck. He suppressed his violence; the monster raged inside him instead, smashing the chandeliers and coffee table in his liver and stomach, ruining his digestion, but it’s considerably better than ruining number 87,rue de Richelieu, thought Picard, as he closed the gap between himself and his host. The Prefect would not take kindly to such a brawl. Go calmly, Picard, you’re not in the army any more.
    “Monsieur Lazare?”
    “Yes?”
    “You have threatened me with this note.”
    “But of course.” Lazare was quietly confident. Picard observed Duval moving closer, eavesdropping on the conversation. The host smiled at Picard and gestured toward the wine table. “Drink with me, Inspector, and forget you were ever given this assignment. It will be much the wiser move for you to make.”
    Picard’s monster flung an upholstered chair through his gall bladder; he turned, walked through the crowded salon toward the door, the bit of telegraph paper still crumpled in his fist. The polished floor of the hallway reflected the round yellow wall lamps, and each step he took was into a faintly glowing sphere.
    The footman awaited him at the outer door, producing his cape and hat from the cloakroom. He slipped into them, couldn’t shake the notion that Lazare was somehow following him, his countenance concealed in the glow of the yellow wall lamps, his shadow gliding unseen in the muted depths of the glistening parquet floor. But the hall was empty, save for Duval, who received his own cape from the footman and stepped with Picard into the courtyard.
    “Inspector? Did I hear him address you as a police inspector?”
    “Yes,” snarled Picard. “So watch your step, Duval.”
    “No one’s to be trusted these days,” sighed Duval, as they walked through the iron gate to the rue de Richelieu. Duval hailed a carriage, climbed into it, and opened the window. “Can I leave you someplace? No? Then good hunting, Inspector. And remember, Eldorado Investments welcomes all investors, no matter how small.” The driver cracked his whip and the carriage rolled away.
     
     

 
     
     
    Picard walked slowly away from the Lazare household, into the lights and traffic of the boulevard Montmartre. How did Lazare know I was coming? One of his spies at police headquarters, perhaps. Alogical place for one. It’s happened before, headquarters troubled by a leak, subsequently plugged by hot lead. I smell fried potatoes.
    He found the seller, an old woman with a portable stove. She handed him a portion of the potatoes, wrapped in white paper, and he walked on, toward Pigalle.
    Lazare knows how to unnerve his guests, I’m still feeling strange. But in truth, Picard, you’ve felt strange for half your life. Too much cognac, too many all-night card games, depravity in general, and most recent, your two-story fall from a burning building. These things do not lead to inner steadiness.
    I feel another of my worthless resolutions coming on.
    He finished his potatoes, threw the paper away, unsatisfied, knowing it was the type of case that would cause inordinate hunger for weeks, months, for as long as it took to