IT was a Tuesday afternoon in midsummer. Paris was deserted—a city

of the dead. Jim Barnett sat in his office with his feet on his desk. He

was in his shirt-sleeves. A glass of lager beer stood al his elbow. A green

blind shut out the blazing sun. To the prejudiced eye, Barnett's

appearance would have suggested slumber, and this impression

would have been strengthened by his rather loud and rhythmical

breathing. A sharp tap on his door made him bring his feet down with a jerk

and sit bolt upright.

'No! It can't be! The heat must be affecting my eyesight.' Barnett

affected elaborate astonishment.