me to her flat so you can see for yourselves, both you and Monsieur Du Bois, that I mean no harm to her? That I merely want to ask her a few questions?"
"You will not be alone with her, I can assure you of that. There'll be no priests in fancy street clothing."
Phyllis Cranston was a diminutive woman of forty-five or fifty, her figure compact, even athletic. Although unsteady on her feet, each foot was planted firmly, defiantly, both admitting and denying her state of drunkenness.
"So who's going to make some coffee?" she demanded in a solidly nasal Midwestern American accent as she fell back in a chair at the far end of her flat, her companion, Du Bois, at her side.
"I've got it on the stove, Butterfly, don't you worry," said the old woman from the lobby.
"Just who is this creep?" asked Cranston, gesturing at Latham.
"An American, mon chou, who knows that dirty priest we told you to stay away from."
"That pig forgives old broads like me, because we're the only women he can get! Is this bastard one of them? Did he come here to get his rocks off?"
"I'm the last person you could imagine being a priest," said Drew softly, calmly.
"And as to sexual satisfaction, I'm very much committed to a lady who takes care of those needs and whom I expect to stay with for the rest of my life, with or without religious sanction."
"Boy, you sound like a real square! Where are you from, baby?"
"Connecticut, originally. Where are you from? Indiana or Ohio, or maybe northern Missouri?"
"Hey, you're pretty much on target, macho-boy. I'm a St. Louis girl, born and brought up in the parochial system -what a drag, right?"
"I wouldn't know."
"But how did you know I was from that part of the good old
U.S.A.?"
"Your accent. I'm trained to spot such things."
"No kidding? .. . Hey, thanks for the java, Eloise." The embassy secretary accepted the mug of coffee and took several sips, shaking her head after each.
"I guess you figure I'm a real loser, don't you?"
she continued, looking at Latham, then suddenly sitting up, staring at him.
"Wait a minute, I know you! You're the Cons-Op officer!"
"That's right, Phyllis."
"What the hell are you doing here?"
"Father Manfried Neuman, he gave me your name."
"That prick! So you could fire me?"
"I see no reason to fire you, Phyllis-- "Then why are you here?"
"Father Neuman, that's why. He told you who a Colonel Webster was, didn't he? That he was a deep-cover American intelligence officer from the embassy who was going underground with a new identity, a new appearance. He told you that, didn't he?"
"Oh, for Christ's sake, he was so full of shit, you couldn't find an outhouse big enough. He did that all the time, especially when he got so excited I thought he'd tear my bottom apart. It was like he was playin' God, telling secrets only God would know, and then when he came off, exploded, he'd grab my face and say God would condemn me to the fires of hell if I ever repeated what he said."
"Why are you telling me now?"
"Why?" Phyllis Cranston drank a large portion of her coffee. She answered simply.
"Because my friends here explained to me that I was a damn fool. I'm a good person, Mr. Whatever-your-name-is and I have a problem which is confined to these few streets. So go to hell."
"Beyond the obvious, what is your problem, Phyllis?"
"I will answer that for you, Monsieur Amiiricain," said the old lady.
"This bilingual child of French parents lost her husband and three children in the American Midwest floods of 'ninety-one. The raging river by their house destroyed -everything. Only she survived, clinging to the rocks until rescued. Why do you think she looks after the children here whenever she can?"
"I have to ask her one more question, the only question, really."
"What is it, Mr. Latham-that is your name, isn't it?" said Phyllis Cranston, sitting up, now more exhausted than drunk.
"After Father Neuman told you who I was-whom did you tell
"I'm trying to remember.. .. Yeah, in the peak of a hangover, I told Bobby Durbane in the comm center, and a lower-pool stenographer I hardly know, not even her name."
"Thank you," said Latham.
"And good night, Phyllis."
Drew walked down the steps of the apartment house in the rue Pavee; a bewildered man. He had no idea who the pool stenographer could be, but her status hardly suggested much influence. Robert Durbane, however, was a shock. Bobby Durbane, the gray fox of