Steve looked at him impatiently. “We don’t exactly beat them over the head with blackjacks, slip the bracelets on and drag them screaming to the paddywagon.” “Of course not, monsieur, but—” Larry Woolford’s chief dined here several times a week and was probably on the best of terms with Fredrick whose decisions on tables and whose degree of servility had a good deal of influence on a man’s status in Greater Washington. Larry said wearily, “We can wait until she leaves. Where is she?” Fredrick had taken them to one side. “Do you see the young lady over near the window on the park? The rather gauche appearing type?” It was a teenager, all right. A youngster up to her eyebrows in the attempt 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 she wears it as though it came from Klein’s. Her perfume is Chanel, but she has used approximately three times the quantity one would expect.” “That’s our girl, all right,” Steve murmured. “Where can we keep an eye on her 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 expenses on this assignment and appreciate your co-operation.” He handed two twenties and a ten to the _maître d’_. Fredrick bowed low, the money disappearing into his clothes magically. “_Merci bien_, monsieur.” At the bar, Steve scowled at his colleague. “Ha!” he said. “Why didn’t I think of that first? He’ll get down on his knees and bump his head each time he sees you in the joint from now on.” Larry Woolford waggled a finger at the other. “This is a status conscious town, 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 to your attainments.” He pursed his lips judiciously. “Although, come to think 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 drink them. Here she comes.” She walked with her head held high, hauteur in every step. Ignoring the peasants at the tables she passed. “Holy smokes,” Steve grunted. “It’s a wonder Fredrick let her in.”