by Fritz Leiber
He was a tremendous artist. It took us years toget him."
Larry Woolford said, "Well, why go into all this? We're hardly dealingwith amateurs now."
Steve looked at him. "That's the trouble. We are."
"Are you batty? Not even your own experts can tell this product from realmoney."
"I didn't say it was being _made_ by amateurs. It's being _pushed_ byamateurs--or maybe amateur is the better word."
"How do you know?"
"For one thing, most professionals won't touch anything bigger than atwenty. Tens are better, fives better still. When you pass a fifty, theperson you give it to is apt to remember where he got it." Steve Hackettsaid slowly, "Particularly if you give one as a tip to the _maitred'hotel_ in a first-class restaurant. A _maitre d'_ holds his job on thestrength of his ability to remember faces and names."
[Illustration.]
"What else makes you think your pushers are amateurs?"
"Amateur," Hackett corrected. "Ideally, a pusher is an inconspicuous type.The kind of person whose face you'd never remember. It's never a teenagegirl who's blowing money."
It was time to stare now, and Larry Woolford obliged. "A teenager!"
"We've had four descriptions of her, one of them excellent. Fredrick, the_maitre d'_ over at La Calvados, is the one that counts, but the othersjibe. She's bought perfume and gloves at Michel Swiss, the swankiest shopin town, a dress at Chez Marie--she passed three fifties there--and a hat atPaulette's over on Monroe Street.
"That's another sign of the amateur, by the way. A competent pusher buys asmall item and gets change from his counterfeit bill. Our girl's beenbuying expensive items, obviously more interested in the product than inher change."
"This doesn't seem to make much sense," Larry Woolford protested. "Youhave any ideas at all?"
"The question is," Hackett said, "where did she get it? Is she connectedwith one of the embassies and acquired the stuff overseas? If so, thatputs it in your lap again possibly--"
The phone rang and Steve flicked the switch and grumbled, "Yeah? StevenHackett speaking."
He listened for a moment then banged the phone off and jumped to his feet."Come on, Larry," he snapped. "This is it."
Larry stood, too. "Who was that?"
"Fredrick, over at La Calvados. The girl has come in for lunch. Let's go!"
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La Calvados was the swankiest French restaurant in Greater Washington, acity not devoid of swank restaurants. Only the upper-echelons ingovernmental circles could afford its tariffs; the clientele was more aptto consist of business mucky-mucks and lobbyists on the make. LarryWoolford had eaten here exactly twice. You could get a reputation spendingmoney far beyond your obvious pay status.
Fredrick, the _maitre de hotel_, however, was able to greet them both byname. "Monsieur Hackett, Monsieur Woolford," he bowed. He obviously didn'tapprove of La Calvados being used as a hangout where counterfeiters werepicked up the authorities.
"Where is she?" Steve said, looking out over the public dining room.
Fredrick said, unprofessionally agitated, "See here, Monsieur Hackett, youdidn't expect to, ah, arrest the young lady _here_ during our lunch hour?"
Steve looked at him impatiently. "We don't exactly beat them over the headwith blackjacks, slip the bracelets on and drag them screaming to thepaddywagon."
"Of course not, monsieur, but--"
Larry Woolford's chief dined here several times a week and was probably onthe best of terms with Fredrick whose decisions on tables and whose degreeof servility had a good deal of influence on a man's status in GreaterWashington. Larry said wearily, "We can wait until she leaves. Where isshe?"
Fredrick had taken them to one side.
"Do you see the young lady over near the window on the park? The rathergauche appearing type?"
It was a teenager, all right. A youngster up to her eyebrows in theattempt to project sophistication.
Steve said, "Do you know who she is?"
"No," Fredrick said. "Hardly our usual clientele."
"Oh?" Larry said. "She looks like money."
Fredrick said, "The dress appears as though it is of Chez Marie, but shewears it as though it came from Klein's. Her perfume is Chanel, but shehas used approximately three times the quantity one would expect."
"That's our girl, all right," Steve murmured. "Where can we keep an eye onher until she leaves?"
"Why not at the bar here, Messieurs?"
"Why not?" Larry said. "I could use a drink."
Fredrick cleared his throat. "Ah, Messieurs, that fifty I turned over you.I suppose it turned out to be spurious?"
Steve grinned at him. "Afraid so, Fredrick. The department is holding it."
Larry took out his wallet. "However, we have a certain leeway on expenseson this assignment and appreciate your co-operation." He handed twotwenties and a ten to the _maitre d'_. Fredrick bowed low, the moneydisappearing into his clothes magically. "_Merci bien_, monsieur."
At the bar, Steve scowled at his colleague. "Ha!" he said. "Why didn't Ithink of that first? He'll get down on his knees and bump his head eachtime he sees you in the joint from now on."
Larry Woolford waggled a finger at the other. "This is a status conscioustown, my boy. Prestige means everything. When I take over my Boss' job,maybe we can swing a transfer and I'll give you a position suitable toyour attainments." He pursed his lips judiciously. "Although, come tothink of it, that might mean a demotion from the job you're holding now."
"Vodka martini," Steve told the bartender. "Polish vodka, of course."
"Of course, sir."
Larry said, "Same for me."
The bartender left and Steve muttered, "I hate vodka."
"Yeah," Larry said, "But what're you going to do in a place like this,order some weird drink?"
Steve dug into his pocket for money. "We're not going to have to drinkthem. Here she comes."
She walked with her head held high, hauteur in every step. Ignoring thepeasants at the tables she passed.
"Holy smokes," Steve grunted. "It's a wonder Fredrick let her in."
She hesitated momentarily before the doorway of the prestige restaurantallowing the passers-by to realize she'd just emerged, and then turned toher right to promenade along the shopping street.
Fifty feet below La Calvados, Steve said, "Let's go, Woolford."
One stepped to one elbow, the other to the other. Steve said quietly, "Iwonder if we could ask you a few questions?"
Her eyebrows went up, "I _beg_ your pardon!"
Steve sighed and displayed the badge pinned to his wallet, keeping itinconspicuous. "Secret Service, Miss," he murmured.
"Oh, devil," she said. She looked up at Larry Woolford, and then back atSteve.
Steve said, "Among other things, we're in charge of counterfeit money."
She was about five foot four in her heels, had obviously been on a roundof beauty shops and had obviously instructed them to glamorize her. Ithadn't come off. She still looked as though she'd be more at home ascheerleader of the junior class in small town high school. She was honeyblond, green-blue of eye, and had that complexion they seldom carry eveninto the twenties.
"I ... I don't know what you're talking about." Her chin began to tremble.
Larry said gently, "Don't worry. We just want to ask you some questions."
"Well ... like what?" She was going to be blinking back tears in a moment.At least Larry hoped she'd blink them back. He'd hate to have her starthowling here in public.
Larry said, "We think you can be of assistance to the government, and we'dlike your help."
Steve rolled his eyes upward, but turned and waved for a street level cab.
In the cab, Larry said, "Suppose we go over to my office, Steve?"
"O.K. with me," Steve muttered, "but by the looks of the young lady here,I think it's a false alarm from your angle. She's obviously an American.What's your name, Miss?"
"It's Zusanette. Well, really, Susan."
"Susan what?"
"I ... I'm not sure I want to tell you. I ... I want a lawyer."
"A lawyer!" Steve snorted. "You mean you want the juvenile authorities,don't you?"
"Oh, what a mean thing to say," she sputtered.