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goods.
    â€œHis ambition, one might say,” Bernard Lascault went on, “has got the better of him. Now were the problem limited to him, one might say: too bad and … what is it? … good riddance to bad rubbish? But of course it isn’t. Mr. Dove’s problem is ours. In point of fact, his lack of control is jeopardizing us all.”
    â€œWhy don’t you tell him so?” I asked.
    â€œAh, but we’ve tried. Of course we’ve tried.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œWe have an expression: le vent en poupe , how do you say it in English? The wind in the … sails ? Sometimes it is very difficult to convince people who have the wind in the sails.”
    That sounded like Al Dove all right, the same one I’d known.
    â€œAnd what about the Law?”
    â€œDo you mean the police?” He grimaced at the idea. “No. Of course the police have their purposes, but that would be premature. Quite premature. Besides, I’m not sure it could be proven that Mr. Dove has done anything illegal, even if one wanted to.”
    â€œI see,” I said. “And, to quote you another expression, you also don’t want to kill the goose that lays the golden eggs.”
    â€œThe goose …? Oh yes, quite.”
    â€œAnd so you’ve come to me?” He nodded. “Well, flattering as that might be, Mr. Lascault, what makes you think I’d be able to convince him where you haven’t? I mean, I suppose I could rough him up for you a little, but …”
    He started to shake his head, then settled for that condescending nasal laugh.
    â€œAh, you Americans!” he said. “You always see life in such primary colors! But Paris isn’t Chicago, Mr. Cage. The situation is rather more delicate. All we really want right now is information.”
    â€œWhat sort of information?”
    He leaned forward heavily in his chair.
    â€œInformation as to his sources. Who is backing him. Where the works he offers really come from, what his financial relationships are. Of course some of this is known to us already, but not all. For example, we know that the greater part of his business is carried on with a well-respected gallery in Beverly Hills, California, the current president of which is … Alain Dove. If you see what I mean.”
    I saw what he meant, only not as far as I should have. After all, if Arts Mondiaux was, as he put it, such a farflung organ-eye-zation, with branches in L.A. and San Francisco among other places, then why …? But my mind must have been on other things. Like how it isn’t every day you get to look up an old buddy. And get paid for the privilege.
    â€œSo you’re suggesting what?” I asked. “That I look him up, say just for old times’ sakes? And start asking questions? And that—just for old times’ sakes—Al Dove’s going to let me in on his trade secrets?”
    He shrugged, and smoothed his thinning hair with his hand.
    â€œStranger things have happened,” he said imperturbably. “Mr. Dove can be a very free-speaking person. We also understand that you are a very resourceful one.”
    â€œWho told you that, Mr. Lascault?”
    â€œAs I’ve said,” he replied mildly, “we’ve quite good sources. In California as well as Paris.”
    â€œAnd what else have they said about me?”
    â€œThat you’re good at your work, tough and good. Also that your past relationship to the man in question has been, shall we say … equivocal? Also that once you commit yourself, you’re to be trusted … up to a point.”
    It was nice to know that my reputation was still intact.
    â€œUp to a point?” I said.
    By way of answer, he reached into his suit jacket and pulled out his checkbook.
    The parenthesis about Helen Raven came later, by telephone, and the invitation to Al Dove’s party by messenger. Who was Helen Raven? I wanted to know. An art critic, he