CHAPTER 7It was eight o’clock Thursday evening when Stan stepped out of a faintly glowing circle of black light in a small alley off the Rue Pigalle in Paris. He calmly lit a cigarette and walked down the street to a small cafe.
It was bigger on the inside than it looked from the street. A long, low-ceilinged room with a tiny platform and a small band, almost hidden by the cigarette smoke, at the far end. Tanner and Reynolds, one of Stan’s lieutenants, were seated at a small table along the side, earnestly talking to a frightened little man with an old-fashioned walrus moustache.
Stan squeezed in next to the little man and introduced himself. He ordered wine, then said: “You know the arrangements?”
The little man looked stubborn. “I’m not sure I like it.”
“We’re not asking much—and we’
