DILLON PAUSED OUTSIDE Le Chat Noir on the end of the small pier for the second time that night. It was almost deserted, a young man and woman at a corner table holding hands, a bottle of wine between them. The accordion was playing softly and the musician talked to the man behind the bar at the same time. They were the Jobert brothers, gangsters of the second rank in the Paris underworld. Their activities had been severely curtailed since Pierre, the one behind the bar, had lost his left leg in a car crash after an armed robbery three years previously.

As the door opened and Dillon entered, the other brother, Gaston, stopped playing. “Ah, Monsieur Rocard. Back already.”

“Gaston.” Dillon shook hands and turned to the barman. “Pierre.”

“See, I still remember that little tune of yours, the Irish one.” Gaston played a few notes on the accordion.

“Good,” Dillon said. “A true artist.”

Behind them the young couple got up and left. Pierre produced half a bottle of champagne from the bar fridge. “Champagne as usual, I presume, my friend? Nothing special, but we are poor men here.”

“You’ll have me crying all over the bar,” Dillon said.

“And what may we do for you?” Pierre enquired.

“Oh, I just want to put a little business your way.” Dillon nodded at the door. “It might be an idea if you closed.”

Gaston put his accordion on the bar, went and bolted the door and pulled down the blind. He returned and sat on his stool. “Well, my friend?”

“This could be a big payday for you boys.” Dillon opened the briefcase, took out one of the road maps and disclosed the stacks of hundred dollar bills. “Twenty thousand American. Ten now and ten on successful completion.”

“My God!” Gaston said in awe, but Pierre looked grim.

“And what would be expected for all this money?”

Dillon had always found it paid to stick as close to the truth as possible, and he spread the road map out across the bar.