“I didn’t say it was being _made_ by amateurs. It’s being _pushed_ by amateurs—or maybe amateur is the better word.” “How do you know?” “For one thing, most professionals won’t touch anything bigger than a twenty. Tens are better, fives better still. When you pass a fifty, the person you give it to is apt to remember where he got it.” Steve Hackett said slowly, “Particularly if you give one as a tip to the _maître d’hôtel_ in a first-class restaurant. A _maître d’_ holds his job on the strength 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 teenage girl 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 _maître d’_ over at La Calvados, is the one that counts, but the others jibe. She’s bought perfume and gloves at Michel Swiss, the swankiest shop in town, a dress at Chez Marie—she passed three fifties there—and a hat at Paulette’s over on Monroe Street. “That’s another sign of the amateur, by the way. A competent pusher buys a small item and gets change from his counterfeit bill. Our girl’s been buying expensive items, obviously more interested in the product than in her change.” “This doesn’t seem to make much sense,” Larry Woolford protested. “You have any ideas at all?” “The question is,” Hackett said, “where did she get it? Is she connected with one of the embassies and acquired the stuff overseas? If so, that puts it in your lap again possibly—” The phone rang and Steve flicked the switch and grumbled, “Yeah? Steven Hackett 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!” ------------------------------------- La Calvados was the swankiest French restaurant in Greater Washington, a city not devoid of swank restaurants. Only the upper-echelons in governmental circles could afford its tariffs; the clientele was more apt to consist of business mucky-mucks and lobbyists on the make. Larry Woolford had eaten here exactly twice. You could get a reputation spending money far beyond your obvious pay status. Fredrick, the _maître de hôtel_, however, was able to greet them both by name. “Monsieur Hackett, Monsieur Woolford,” he bowed. He obviously didn’t approve of La Calvados being used as a hangout where counterfeiters were picked up the authorities. “Where is she?” Steve said, looking out over the public dining room. Fredrick said, unprofessionally agitated, “See here, Monsieur Hackett, you didn’t expect to, ah, arrest the young lady _here_ during our lunch hour?”