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and saw that it was lined with darker-blue tissue, a shade that matched precisely the brief printed heading at the top of the letter.
    DOMAINE DES ROCHERS
    I write in response to your advertisement. It is possible that we might find an area of mutual interest. If you would like to discuss it, please telephone me at 90.90.00.77
.
    Julian Poe
    Bennett studied the bold, angular handwriting in deep-black ink. He held the paper up to the light and saw the edge of a watermark. Everything about the letter suggested taste and affluence, and Bennett was out of his chair and halfway to the bar to use the café phone when he realized that it was almost noon. Did people like Julian Poe sit down for lunch at twelve on the dot? Disturbing him at the table would be a bad start. Bennett dithered for a moment, then decided to take a chance.
    The voice at the other end of the phone was French,reserved and impersonal, a servant’s voice. Bennett asked for Monsieur Poe.
    “De la part de qui?”
    “Bennett. No, wait a minute. Say it’s Box Eighty-four, from the
Herald Tribune.
”
    The line clicked to hold, and Bennett signaled Léon for another glass of wine. He felt unreasonably hopeful, sure that this would lead to something. Such is the effect that opulent writing paper can have on a man who has just lost his last pair of white trousers.
    The line clicked again.
    “This is all very clandestine. Shall I call you Box Eighty-four, or do you have a name?” The voice matched the writing paper—smooth and rich and assured. A toff’s voice. With the instinctive English habit of classifying people by their accents, Bennett placed Poe at the top end of the social order. Probably an Old Etonian, like that little turd Brynford-Smith.
    “Yes. Sorry. It’s Bennett.”
    “Well, Mr. Bennett, we should meet. I take it you’re not too far from Bonnieux?”
    “Saint-Martin-le-Vieux, actually. About half an hour away.”
    “Splendid. Why don’t you come over this evening, about six. If we don’t instantly loathe each other, we can dine together.”
    Bennett took down the directions to Poe’s house, treated himself to lunch, and went back over the brief conversation. Poe had sounded pleasant and relaxed, and fromwhat he had described of his property, it seemed as though he owned the major part of a mountain above Bonnieux. Bennett wondered what the job was, and what would be appropriate dress for the interview.
    He stood in front of the mirror in his bedroom, trying to gauge the effect he would have on a prospective employer. He was an inch under six feet, and lean, as bachelors with irregular eating habits often are. His face was long and tight-skinned, with sun wrinkles around the blue eyes and well-defined lines on either side of his mouth. His hair, straight and dark brown, was a little long, but it shone, Georgette having long ago convinced him of the benefits of Savon de Marseille on the scalp.
    From the neck down, he was irreproachable. A pale-pink shirt, a navy-blue knitted silk tie, a blazer and gray flannels that Hayward had made for him in London long ago, when the money was coming in, and cordovan shoes from St. James’s. He had always bought the best clothes that he could afford, classic rather than fashionable, following the principle that a prosperous appearance was a business asset, particularly when business wasn’t going too well. Millionaires could afford to dress like their gardeners. Bennett didn’t have that luxury. In fact, he enjoyed the feeling of well-made, well-fitting clothes that seemed to improve with age.
    He chose a silk handkerchief from the drawer, and was tucking it into the top pocket of his blazer when he felt a small obstruction. Smiling to himself, he pulled out a sachet of dried lavender. Georgette had developed the habitof seasoning his clothes, and he was constantly finding sprigs of thyme and rosemary or small tablets of mimosa soap among his socks and underwear. The lavender sachets were new. He was