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although he may not be the type you want, he looks the picture of decency and innocence, and what is more important for you, he has only a few more months or weeks to live, I have found out. He’s got leukemia, and has just heard the bad news. He might be willing to take on a dangerous job to earn some money now. I don’t know Trevanny personally, and need I emphasize that I don’t wish to make his acquaintance, nor do I wish you to mention my name. My suggestion is, if you want to sound him out, come to F’bleau, put yourself up at a charming hostelry called the Hotel de L’Aigle Noir for a couple of days, contact Trevanny by ringing his shop, make an appointment and talk it over. And do I have to tell you to give another name besides your own?
    Tom felt a sudden optimism about the project. The vision of Reeves with his disarming air of uncertainty and anxiety – almost suggestive of probity – laying such an idea before Trevanny who looked as upright as a saint, made Tom laugh. Did he dare occupy another table in the Hotel de L’Aigle Noir’s dining-room or bar when Reeves made his date with Trevanny? No, that would be too much. This reminded Tom of another point, and he added to his letter:
    If you come to F’bleau, please don’t telephone or write a note to me under any circumstances. Destroy my letter here, please.
    Yours ever, Tom

4

    T HE telephone rang in Jonathan’s shop on Friday afternoon 31 March, He was just then gluing brown paper to the back of a large picture, and he had to find suitable weights – an old sandstone saying L ONDON, the glue pot itself, a wooden mallet – before he could lift the telephone.
    ‘Hello?’
    ‘Bonjour, m’sieur. M. Trevanny? … You speak English, I think. My name is Stephen Wister, W-i-s-t-e-r. I’m in Fontainebleau for a couple of days, and I wonder if you could find a few minutes to talk with me about something – something that I think would interest you.’
    The man had an American accent. ‘I don’t buy pictures,’ Jonathan said. ‘I’m a framer.’
    ‘I didn’t want to see you about anything connected with your work. It’s something I can’t explain over the phone. – I’m staying at the Aigle Noir.’
    ‘Oh?’
    ‘I was wondering if you have a few minutes this evening after you close your shop. Around seven? Six-thirty? We could have a drink or a coffee.’
    ‘But – I’d like to know why you want to see me.’ A woman had come into the shop – Mme Tissot, Tissaud? – to pick up a picture. Jonathan smiled apologetically to her.
    ‘I’ll have to explain when I see you,’ said the soft, earnest voice. ‘It’ll take only ten minutes. Have you any time at seven today, for instance?’
    Jonathan shifted. ‘Six-thirty would be all right.’
    ‘I’ll meet you in the lobby. I’m wearing a grey plaid suit. But I’ll speak to the porter. It won’t be difficult.’
    Jonathan usually closed around 6.30 p.m. At 6.15 p.m., he stood at his cold-water sink, scrubbing his hands. It was a mild day and Jonathan had worn a polo-neck sweater with an old beige corduroy jacket, not elegant enough for l’Aigle Noir, and the addition of his second-best mac would have made things worse. Why should he care? The man wanted to sell him something. It couldn’t be anything else.
    The hotel was only a five-minute walk from the shop. It had a small front court enclosed by high iron gates, and a few steps led up to its front door. Jonathan saw a slender, tense-looking man with crew-cut hair move towards him with a faint uncertainty, and Jonathan said:
    ‘Mr Wister?’
    ‘Yes.’ Reeves gave a twitch of a smile and extended his hand. ‘Shall we have a drink in the bar here, or do you prefer somewhere else?’
    The bar here was pleasant and quiet. Jonathan shrugged. ‘As you like.’ He noticed an awful scar the length of Wister’s cheek.
    They went to the wide door of the hotel’s bar, which was empty except for one man and woman at a small table. Wister