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need, vague on the details he wanted. Monsieur Ballard had already left to join his friends. They were flying in a private plane. No, not from Orly. He would not be back in Paris until Monday afternoon. He would telephone tomorrow and on Sunday, of course, to hear any urgent reports. Could she give Monsieur Ballard any message from Monsieur Fennaire?
    No, Monsieur Fennaire had no message. “But,” Fenneradded quickly, “if he is calling for news reports, who is collecting them?”
    “His assistant, Monsieur Spitzaire.”
    “Spitzer?”
    “But yes. André Spitzaire. You would like to talk with him?”
    “But yes.”
    André Spitzer was French, too, and a sharp journalist. It was something of a triumph, Fenner reflected as he put down the receiver, to have managed to extract a name that might be able to help (or advise, at least) without having actually satisfied Mr. Spitzer’s probing curiosity. Fenner had begun by explaining that he wanted someone at the Consulate who could deal with a problem involving an American citizen and French currency regulations. Oh, nothing serious, but urgent. No, no, nothing to do with the black market—did the Consulate have a specialist in that, too? (Laughter on the ’phone.) Yes, he wanted a specialist in French currency regulations, currency control. Oh, not currency control at any particular place, just currency control.
    It was only then that Spitzer admitted he didn’t know anyone, personally, at the American Consulate. He could, of course, make inquiries, and let Mr. Fenner know in half an hour? If Mr. Fenner could be more explicit, it would be much easier...
    Fenner resisted the reply that he could make inquiries, too. “Does Ballard know anyone at the Consulate?” A name is what I need, he kept telling himself, just a name I can reach directly without having to explain all the way up, from information clerks to secretaries to assistants of assistants. A hundred thousand dollars brought so secretively into France was not exactly his idea of telephone conversation.
    “No, only at the Embassy.”
    “Who?”
    “Well, there’s a press officer named Dade, Stanfield Dade. And there’s—”
    “That will do. Thank you. Thanks a lot.”
    Stanfield Dade. He remembered the name. He remembered its owner from the days when Dade used to haunt the long corridors at the UN. A tall young man, thin, with glasses and a Haavad Yaad accent? That was eight years ago. Would he remember him? Anyway, remembered or unremembered, Fenner had the name he needed.
    Stanfield Dade was eventually tracked to his desk. There was someone with him, for Fenner heard background voices as Dade came onto the ’phone with a sharp “Who is this?” Fenner was terse and urgent. He identified himself, didn’t pause when Dade said in a better mood, “Oh yes. And how are you?” but rushed on with his story. Dade kept saying, “Yes, yes,” with growing impatience, until Fenner reached the final discovery. “Money? in an envelope? Was it much?” Dade was jolted into attention.
    “I’d say yes.” It would keep me comfortably alive for at least ten years, Fenner thought wryly, but then I don’t play in the Miami–Vegas circuit.
    “Well—” Dade was bemused. He paused. “I was going to suggest that you contact the Consulate, but—” He paused again. “And this envelope was really well hidden?”
    “Definitely.”
    Dade turned his head away, spoke to someone, muffling the receiver as he began, “It’s very odd, you know—” Soon he was back again with Fenner. “What did this fellow look like?”
    Fenner described the brown suit again.
    “He arrived at Orly just after eight this morning?”
    “That’s right.” What goes on here? Fenner wondered.
    “Please hang on.” The line became silent, with Dade’s hand completely smothering the receiver this time. Fenner waited patiently, but gloom and annoyance mounted: this was one hell of a way to spend his first morning in Paris. Then Dade was on