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was failing, First Danubian Trust decided to buy it. This was in October of ’37. But then Belesz died suddenly, a hunting accident, shot himself while climbing over a fence. His two children succeeded him, niece and nephew to the brothers, and inherited equally his share of the holding company that controls the bank.”
    “Who are the heirs?”
    “They are both in their mid-forties, the nephew interests himself in Budapest nightlife, the niece is married to a major in the Hungarian army. When the holding company was founded here, it was the owners’ direction that all the shareholders have to agree before they can do anything.”
    “Oh Lord,” Barabee said, with the sigh in his voice of one who sees it all coming . “Where is the mother in this?”
    “Belesz was divorced ten years ago, at the time of his death hewas living with a nightclub dancer. So the mother is not involved, and the nephew and the niece are fighting.”
    “Well, of course they are … inherit wealth and pick a fight. Which is over …?”
    “Dogs.”
    “Oh Lord, animals . The firm’s been there before, the New York office represented W. C. Fields when he was charged by the New York Humane Society with the death of a canary, ‘by torture.’ The bird flew into a painted flat during the act. Fields was acquitted. So, that said, what sort of dogs?”
    “A Hungarian breed called vizsla, they have short-hair coats, like whippets, are colored brown or rust, with rosy-brown noses. They are excellent hunting dogs and good family dogs as well. In this case there are three, inherited by the niece and nephew. He wants to sell them, she says she loves them and wants to keep them. He refused to vote on the hotel sale until she gave in, and there it sits, the partnership can’t do anything and, meanwhile, the hotel has failed and there are many creditors in court.”
    “Have Count Polanyi and his brother offered to buy the dogs?”
    “They have, but the nephew doesn’t want money, he thinks that if he refuses to vote his half share, he can drive his sister out of the partnership. It was the Count Polanyi who telephoned me this morning, told me the story, and asked if we can do anything under French law.”
    “Where are the dogs?”
    “They were at the Belesz house in Budapest, being cared for by the servants. But Count Polanyi has a castle in Hungary, and he called his steward and asked him to pick them up. So I expect they’re at the castle.”
    Barabee brooded for a moment, then rubbed his eyes and glanced at his watch. “Well …,” he said. Then, “We’ll have to come up with a list of possible legal moves, Cristián, but not until tomorrow. In here? Ten o’clock?”
    Ferrar nodded, they said good night, and Ferrar returned to hisoffice. His secretary, Jeannette, already had her coat on but she’d been waiting for him. “Monsieur Ferrar? A telephone call came in for you a few minutes ago, a Señor Molina, from the Spanish embassy. There’s a note on your desk with the number.”
    “Thank you, Jeannette,” Ferrar said. “And bonsoir.”
    Ferrar sat at the desk, staring at the number. He had a bad feeling about this, then chided himself for having the feeling. Let it be something to do with the émigré community , he thought, a funeral, a party, a meeting . He dialed the number, gave his name, and the receptionist put him through immediately.
    “Señor Ferrar, thank you for being prompt. Would it be possible for us to meet, perhaps tomorrow morning?”
    “At nine? At the embassy?”
    “Thank you, Señor Ferrar. I will see you at nine.”
    The embassy was a few minutes’ walk from the law firm; Ferrar felt he could just manage the meeting and be at Coudert by ten. He left the office and headed toward the Sixth Arrondissement, thinking he might take the Métro or find a taxi, but he did neither. It was a fine cold night, swirls of powdery snow blew over the cobblestones, Parisians flowed past him in their winter coats and