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English. He offered me a seat, a drink, and a cigar. I refused the last two, sank into a soft divan, and lit my pipe, puzzled by his bonhommie, while he apologized for any rough treatment I might have had. He wanted to know how things were in California. I said I hadn’t been there for a while. He said he’d always wanted to go to California—“’ollywood,” the girls, the sunshine, the skyscrapers, the big cars. And sports, the betting, fabulous. In France they had no sports betting, only horses. A little boxing. But it would come. It had in Spain, Italy, England. A question of organization. But he’d never had the time for California. It was business, always business, I knew how that was, didn’t I?
    At this point Dédé Delatour unleashed his eyebrows. He had thick, mobile ones, and a bristling mustache to go with them, and he did a lot of work with both.
    I’d surprised him, he said. I had what I wanted, didn’t I? Wasn’t Adlay what I wanted? It was too bad, such an excellent athlete, the public liked him, he scored many points. He would be hard to replace. But business was business, he was willing to let me have Adlay. Alors … ?
    Alors is French for then . The way he used it called for me to take up the conversational ball. At least to tell him he’d made a mistake about me.
    I didn’t.
    In addition there was the matter of Greemse.
    â€œWhat is your interest in Greemse, Monsieur? Why have you been bothering about him and his whore? He wasn’t even part of our arrangement. On the contrary …”
    He left it hanging there, his eyebrows up, and I realized he’d jumped to a conclusion about me. It may have been a cockeyed one, but at least it explained the kid-glove reception, and if it was cockeyed, even simple-minded, you have to remember that he was French. Because just like if you told the average Frenchman you came from Chicago he’d assume you were a cousin of Al Capone, so to Dédé Delatour an American from California who’d been hanging around Roscoe Hadley was no garden-variety basketball freak. And the fact that this particular Californian lived in Paris and spoke passable French only proved that he was fronting for others who didn’t.
    Or so it seemed to me, on the spot. The fact that there could be another, more plausible explanation didn’t so much as occur to me.
    â€œMaybe that’s just the point,” I said, taking the bait. “That Grimes wasn’t part of the arrangement.”
    â€œ Comment ?” he said. Then: “Ahhh …” and the eyebrows relaxed. It was as though I’d just explained a lot of things. “But don’t forget, Monsieur, we don’t own the basketball clubs ourselves. Not all of them, not yet. Greemse’s and Adlay’s club only just came up from the lower division this season. The club owner signed them to play without consulting us. But now, with them gone, it will be much simpler.”
    â€œHow is that?”
    â€œObviously. Without them, their club is no longer competitive. Where will they find two other players of such quality? They will have to be replaced … by you, of course. But only after the club has been put up for sale. Cheaply.”
    â€œObviously,” I said. “But did Grimes have to be murdered for that to happen?”
    Dédé Delatour shrugged, with his eyebrows as well as his shoulders.
    â€œMaybe you should ask Adlay about it.”
    â€œMaybe I did.”
    â€œWhat did he say?”
    â€œMaybe he says he doesn’t know why Grimes was killed.”
    â€œGr … How do you say it in American?” He made another stab at “Grimes,” but it just wouldn’t come. “Greemse,” he said, chuckling. “There’s no reason for us to mourn him. He was a troublemaker. The Italians didn’t want him, the Spanish either. A nigger hoodlum of low intelligence. Not even the other