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and wrote Hob a check for five hundred pounds.
    “I’m by no means a wealthy man,” Timothy said. “That’s what I can afford. There won’t be any more. I’m sure you’ll do your best on it.”
    “I’ll do what I can,” Hob said. “Where shall I send my reports? And do you want them telephoned as well as written?”
    “I don’t want any reports,” Timothy said. Hob could see that Timothy had made up his mind how to handle this probably on the flight over from London. “If and when you’ve brought his murderer to book, perhaps you’d be good enough to write me care of my club.” He gave Hob a card. “I’d appreciate your not putting a return address on the envelope. In my position, one must avoid scandal at all costs.”
    Hob didn’t like it, but he accepted it. One of the jobs of a private detective is to accept money from people who are trying to buy off their guilt at not doing something themselves. But from a detective’s point of view, it was a legitimate case.
     
     

 
    8
     
     
    The next day, Hob went to the Café Argent in the Square Sainte-Gabrielle. Usually Hob would have taken Nigel, his chief operative, but Nigel was away on some scheme or another in England. With Nigel absent, Hob brought his other Paris operative Jean-Claude, a skinny little fellow in his early thirties, with brilliantined black hair and a hairline mustache. Jean-Claude looked louche, dangerous, and unpleasant, as always. Today he wore his striped Apaches-of-Paris shirt and tight black pants.
    When a waiter came over to take their orders, Hob asked to see the proprietor. The proprietor came over, a short, square, balding man presenting a somewhat harrassed bonhomie.
    “I was here last night,” Hob said. “I am helping the French police in their investigations.”
    “Yes, m’sieu.”
    “This is my associate, Jean-Claude.”
    The proprietor made a slight bow. Jean-Claude gave him the slitted eye.
    “We seek to find out more about the man who sat with the deceased.”
    The proprietor made an expressive gesture with his hands. “As I told the inspector, I served the man myself. I noted nothing about him except what I have already said.”
    “I realize that,” Hob said. “But it occurred to me that it is slightly unusual for the proprieter to take orders when he has waiters.”
    “Nothing unusual about it,” the proprietor said. “Marcel had just gone off duty, so I filled and served the order myself.”
    “But did Marcel take the order?”
    “Of course. He wrote it up and gave me the slip, and then his time was finished, and he took off his apron and left. Young men these days are all for the union rules as long as they are in their favor.”
    “You didn’t mention this to Inspector Fauchon.”
    “It slipped my mind in the excitement of the moment. Anyhow, what need? I served the order, and I have already stated what I saw—which was nothing.”
    “Just so. But perhaps you would oblige us by asking Marcel to come to our table for a few questions. He might have seen something that slipped your attention.”
    The proprietor shrugged, a gesture that said, “That’ll be the day!” But he went to his counter and called for a young waiter who was serving on the far side of the square.
    Marcel was young, slim, blond, good-looking. Reminded Hob of a young Jean-Pierre Aumont. And yes, damned if the fellow didn’t have his hair marcelled. Sometimes life was very strange, indeed.
    “Yes, I took the order. But there was nothing amiss. They were talking together quite pleasantly. And as you know, I was not here when the accident took place.”
    “What were they talking about?” Hob asked.
    Marcel pulled himself up to his full height. “I do not eavesdrop on the customers, m’sieu.”
    Then Jean-Claude stepped in. “Look here, mon vieux , I’m not going to dance around the tables with you. You are a waiter, n’est-ce pas? That makes you automatically one of the nosy class. I am going to require that you