“Watkins.”
“Hello.”
The two men embraced and began speaking in English.
“Where have you sent Anna?” asked the stranger.
“She forgot to turn on the cellar lights again. The plants will surely die. I’m glad you’re here. We’ve had problems.”
“I’ve heard already. Routier’s been killed. No clues. You were there. Who did it?”
The man was in his twenties and would have looked perfectly nondescript except for the great swelling in his left cheek. His hair was short and brown, his suit common, and he wore no tie. Occasionally he chewed at his cheek.
“I haven’t much of an idea,” said Lupa. “It could have been any of us. Oh, excuse me, this is Jules Giraud. Joseph Watkins.”
We shook hands as the woman returned.
“Look at his cheek, will you?” she said. “Those damned olives again.”
Watkins grinned crookedly. “Addicted,” he said. “Can’t get enough of the blasted things.”
“He’s been horrible all morning,” said the woman. “Eating so many of them he can’t talk, spitting the pits wherever he happens to be. I should have tossed him out long ago. If he wasn’t so . . .” She smiled and touched his arm. He moved aside. “Hello,” she said, crossing to me, “my name is Anna Dubrov. I’ve seen you before in town.”
I nodded. “Jules Giraud.”
Lupa suggested we go to the back of the shop. On the way, Watkins leaned over one of the potted plants and straightened up again without the swelling in his cheek. He was grinning broadly.
“Anyone care for an olive?” he asked, taking ten or fifteen from his coat pocket. When no one responded, he deposited the entire handful into his mouth.
Lupa stood with an arm around Anna, waiting for this frivolous Englishman to finish chewing. When the pits had been stuffed into his cheek, Lupa began.
“Any news?”
“Yes, and specific.” Once he started talking, he was entirely businesslike. Perhaps he wasn’t as frivolous as he seemed.
“Continue.”
“Well, naturally you’re here on your own affairs, something about assassinations and so forth, but I thought—”
“You can drop that,” said Lupa. “M. Giraud, as you know, is an agent of the French, and he is now in our confidence.” He turned to me, continuing, “I am a free operative working for the English government. I know all this has been denied time and again in your inquiries about me. You know how that is. My uncle is a nonambulatory genius whom I detest, but he is probably the most important man in England, and we share some views during wartime.”
