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peephole in the door.
    After a couple of minutes the door was opened by a great, violent-looking beast of a man with a clean-shaven scalp. He stood slightly aside to give them a narrow corridor of entry. The umbrella was collapsed and the two entered. The door was immediately closed and bolted behind them and they were led down a passage into a rear room which was warm and well lit.
    In this room two men sat opposite each other at a table on the far wall from the fire. The one facing them was shortish and stout with a generous head of ginger hair and similar clusters for eyebrows and moustache. What one could see of his arms was carpeted with a thick mat of sandy down which extended along the backs of his hands into sprouts at his knuckles. He scowled at the new arrivals.
    Weasel-face spoke up. “This is the bloke I told you about, Henri.”
    “ Go upstairs, Mickey.”
    The little man departed with alacrity.
    There was a long pause while the ginger-headed man inspected his guest closely. At last he stood up and extended a hairy hand. “I am Henri Montlucon. I hear you’ve been asking around for me.”
    “ You are a member of La Force Marseillaise?”
    “ Yes.”
    “ Then that is correct.” The accent was cultured - almost grand.
    Montlucon shrugged. “So - who are you?”
    “ You may call me Alain Hebert.”
    “ And what’s your real name?”
    “ At present I wish to keep that to myself.”
    There was silence while this was digested. Montlucon glanced uncertainly at the other man at the table. At last he said, “All right. You can sit down.” He indicated the third chair with its back to the fire and resumed his own seat.
    Hebert carefully leaned his folded umbrella in the corner near the door and took the offered seat between the two gangsters. Now he could look at the face of the other man, the back of whose nearly-bald head had been the only feature which was previously visible to him. What he saw made his blood go cold, although he suppressed any reaction from showing on his face.
    A dreadful wound down the whole of the right side of the man’s face had removed the eye and the skin now sank into the hollow socket. The cheek-bone had been cloven in two and an attempt to repair it had been botched. The corner of the mouth had been drawn down to the broken jaw-bone which had been untidily wired together to allow the man to eat and which now gave a permanently mournful twist on that side to the otherwise savage face. The long, irregular scar glared bright pink in the pale face. It was at least a half a centimetre wide. Glancing quickly at it, careful not to stare, Hebert calculated that the wound was less than six months old.
    It was Montlucon who spoke. “What did you want to say to me?”
    The tall man paused for a few moments to gather his thoughts. He decided there was no point in fencing with these people.
    “ Have you heard of the treasure of the Templars?”
    “ Maybe.”
    “ The Templars were an order of warrior monks in the Middle Ages. They had become extremely rich. The French king of the day wanted their treasure. So he outlawed the order, captured and tortured their leaders, and took hold of their property.” He paused for dramatic effect. “The Templars in France were liquidated.”
    “ What does that mean to us?”
    “ Despite his efforts the king failed to find the extensive Treasure of the Templars.”
    Montlucon wriggled on his seat, waiting for the silence to end. At last he enquired, “So?”
    “ So - I know the location of the treasure which King Phillipe le Bel failed to find.”
    The scarred man took a dribbling breath - the first sound he had made. But once again it was ginger who spoke. “Why do you come to see us about it? Why don’t you collect it yourself and make a killing?”
    Hebert permitted himself a slight smile. “The size of the treasure is too huge for me to handle on my own. I need assistance.”
    “ But why us?”
    “ I believe that you have an organisation