avid Becker strode over and stared down at the old man asleepon the cot. The man's right wrist was wrapped in a cast. Hewas between sixty and seventy years old. His snow-white hair wasparted neatly to the side, and in the center of his forehead was adeep purple welt that spread down into his right eye.

A little bump? he thought, recalling thelieutenant's words. Becker checked the man's fingers.There was no gold ring anywhere. Becker reached down and touchedthe man's arm. "Sir?" He shook him lightly."Excuse me… sir?"

The man didn't move.

Becker tried again, a little louder. "Sir?"

The man stirred. "Qu'est-ce… quelle heureest—" He slowly opened his eyes and focused on Becker. Hescowled at having been disturbed. "Qu'est-ce-que vousvoulez?"

Yes, Becker thought, a French Canadian! Beckersmiled down at him. "Do you have a moment?"

Although Becker's French was perfect, he spoke in what hehoped would be the man's weaker language, English. Convincinga total stranger to hand over a gold ring might be a little tricky;Becker figured he could use any edge he could get.

There was a long silence as the man got his bearings. Hesurveyed his surroundings and lifted a long finger to smooth hislimp white mustache. Finally he spoke. "What do youwant?" His English carried a thin, nasal accent.

"Sir," Becker said, overpronouncing his words as ifspeaking to a deaf person, "I need to ask you a fewquestions."

The man glared up at him with a strange look on his face."Do you have some sort of problem?"

Becker frowned; the man's English was impeccable. Heimmediately lost the condescending tone. "I'm sorry tobother you, sir, but were you by any chance at the Plaza deEspaña today?"

The old man's eyes narrowed. "Are you from the CityCouncil?"

"No, actually I'm—"

"Bureau of Tourism?"

"No, I'm—"

"Look, I know why you're here!" The old manstruggled to sit up. "I'm not going to be intimidated! IfI've said it once, I've said it a thousandtimes—Pierre Cloucharde writes the world the way he lives the world. Some of your corporate guidebooks might sweepthis under the table for a free night on the town, but the Montreal Times is not for hire! I refuse!"

"I'm sorry, sir. I don't think youunder—"

"Merde alors! I understand perfectly!" He wagged abony finger at Becker, and his voice echoed through the gymnasium."You're not the first! They tried the same thing at theMoulin Rouge, Brown's Palace, and the Golfigno in Lagos! Butwhat went to press? The truth! The worst WellingtonI've ever eaten! The filthiest tub I've ever seen! Andthe rockiest beach I've ever walked! My readers expect noless!"

Patients on nearby cots began sitting up to see what was goingon. Becker looked around nervously for a nurse. The last thing heneeded was to get kicked out.

Cloucharde was raging. "That miserable excuse for a policeofficer works for your city! He made me get on hismotorcycle! Look at me!" He tried to lift his wrist. "Now who's going to write my column?"

"Sir, I—"

"I've never been so uncomfortable in my forty-threeyears of travel! Look at this place! You know, my column issyndicated in over—"

"Sir!" Becker held up both hands urgently signalingtruce. "I'm not interested in your column; I'm fromthe Canadian Consulate. I'm here to make sure you'reokay!"

Suddenly there was a dead quiet in the gymnasium. The old manlooked up from his bed and eyed the intruder suspiciously.

Becker ventured on in almost a whisper. "I'm here tosee if there's anything I can do to help." Like bringyou a couple of Valium.

After a long pause, the Canadian spoke. "Theconsulate?" His tone softened considerably.

Becker nodded.

"So, you're not here about my column?"

"No, sir."

It was as if a giant bubble had burst for Pierre Cloucharde. Hesettled slowly back down onto his mound of pillows. He lookedheartbroken. "I thought you were from the city… trying toget me to…" He faded off and then looked up. "Ifit's not about my column, then why are youhere?"

It was a good question, Becker thought, picturing the SmokyMountains. "Just an informal diplomatic courtesy," helied.

The man looked surprised. "A diplomatic courtesy?"

"Yes, sir. As I'm sure a man of your stature is wellaware, the Canadian government works hard to protect its countrymenfrom the indignities suffered in these, er—shall wesay—less refined countries."

Cloucharde's thin lips parted in a knowing smile. "Butof course … how pleasant."

"You are a Canadian citizen, aren'tyou?"

"Yes, of course. How silly of me. Please forgive me.Someone in my position is often approached with… well…you understand."

"Yes, Mr. Cloucharde, I certainly do. The price one paysfor celebrity."

"Indeed." Cloucharde let out a tragic sigh. He was anunwilling martyr tolerating the masses. "Can you believe thishideous place?" He rolled his eyes at the bizarresurroundings. "It's a mockery. And they've decidedto keep me overnight."

Becker looked around. "I know. It's terrible. I'msorry it took me so long to get here."

Cloucharde looked confused. "I wasn't even aware youwere coming."

Becker changed the subject. "Looks like a nasty bump onyour head. Does it hurt?"

"No, not really. I took a spill this morning—the priceone pays for being a good Samaritan. The wrist is the thingthat's hurting me. Stupid Guardia. I mean, really! Putting aman of my age on a motorcycle. It'sreprehensible."

"Is there anything I can get for you?"

Cloucharde thought a moment, enjoying the attention. "Well,actually…" He stretched his neck and tilted his head leftand right. "I could use another pillow if it's nottoo much trouble."

"Not at all." Becker grabbed a pillow off a nearby cotand helped Cloucharde get comfortable.

The old man sighed contentedly. "Much better… thankyou."

"Pas du tout," Becker replied.

"Ah!" The man smiled warmly. "So you dospeak the language of the civilized world."

"That's about the extent of it," Becker saidsheepishly.

"Not a problem," Cloucharde declared proudly. "Mycolumn is syndicated in the U.S.; my English is firstrate."

"So I've heard." Becker smiled. He sat down onthe edge of Cloucharde's cot. "Now, if you don'tmind my asking, Mr. Cloucharde, why would a man such as yourselfcome to a place like this? There are far better hospitals inSeville."

Cloucharde looked angry. "That police officer… hebucked me off his motorcycle and then left me bleeding in thestreet like a stuck pig. I had to walk over here."

"He didn't offer to take you to a betterfacility?"

"On that godawful bike of his? No thanks!"

"What exactly happened this morning?"

"I told it all to the lieutenant."

"I've spoken to the officer and—"

"I hope you reprimanded him!" Clouchardeinterrupted.

Becker nodded. "In the severest terms. My office will befollowing up."

"I should hope so."

"Monsieur Cloucharde." Becker smiled, pulling a penout of his jacket pocket. "I'd like to make a formalcomplaint to the city. Would you help? A man of your reputationwould be a valuable witness."

Cloucharde looked buoyed by the prospect of being quoted. He satup. "Why, yes… of course. It would be mypleasure."

Becker took out a small note pad and looked up. "Okay,let's start with this morning. Tell me about theaccident."

The old man sighed. "It was sad really. The poor Asianfellow just collapsed. I tried to help him—but it was nouse."

"You gave him CPR?"

Cloucharde looked ashamed. "I'm afraid I don'tknow how. I called an ambulance."

Becker remembered the bluish bruises on Tankado's chest."Did the paramedics administer CPR?"

"Heavens, no!" Cloucharde laughed. "No reason towhip a dead horse—the fellow was long gone by the time theambulance got there. They checked his pulse and carted him off,leaving me with that horrific policeman."

That's strange, Becker thought, wondering where thebruise had come from. He pushed it from his mind and got to thematter at hand. "What about the ring?" he said asnonchalantly as possible.

Cloucharde looked surprised. "The lieutenant told you aboutthe ring?"

"Yes, he did."

Cloucharde seemed amazed. "Really? I didn't think hebelieved my story. He was so rude—as if he thought I werelying. But my story was accurate, of course. I pride myself onaccuracy."

"Where is the ring?" Becker pressed.

Cloucharde didn't seem to hear. He was glassy-eyed, staringinto space. "Strange piece really, all thoseletters—looked like no language I'd ever seen."

"Japanese, maybe?" Becker offered.

"Definitely not."

"So you got a good look at it?"

"Heavens, yes! When I knelt down to help, the man keptpushing his fingers in my face. He wanted to give me the ring. Itwas most bizarre, horrible really—his hands were quitedreadful."

"And that's when you took the ring?"

Cloucharde went wide-eyed. "That's what the officertold you! That I took the ring?"

Becker shifted uneasily.

Cloucharde exploded. "I knew he wasn't listening!That's how rumors get started! I told him the Jap fellow gaveaway the ring—but not to me! There's no way Iwould take anything from a dying man! My heavens! The thought ofit!"

Becker sensed trouble. "So you don't have thering?"

"Heavens, no!"

A dull ache crept through the pit of his stomach. "Then whohas it?"

Cloucharde glared at Becker indignantly. "The German! TheGerman has it!"

Becker felt like the floor had been pulled out from under him."German? What German?"

"The German in the park! I told the officer about him! Irefused the ring but the fascist swine accepted it!"

Becker set down his pen and paper. The charade was over. Thiswas trouble. "So a German has the ring?"

"Indeed."

"Where did he go?"

"No idea. I ran to call the police. When I got back, he wasgone."

"Do you know who he was?"

"Some tourist."

"Are you sure?"

"My life is tourists," Cloucharde snapped. "Iknow one when I see one. He and his lady friend were out strollingthe park."

Becker was more and more confused every moment. "Ladyfriend? There was somebody with the German?"

Cloucharde nodded. "An escort. Gorgeous redhead. Mon Dieu!Beautiful."

"An escort?" Becker was stunned. "As in… aprostitute?"

Cloucharde grimaced. "Yes, if you must use the vulgarterm."

"But… the officer said nothing about—"

"Of course not! I never mentioned the escort."Cloucharde dismissed Becker with a patronizing wave of his goodhand. "They aren't criminals—it's absurd thatthey're harassed like common thieves."

Becker was still in a mild state of shock. "Was thereanyone else there?"

"No, just the three of us. It was hot."

"And you're positive the woman was aprostitute?"

"Absolutely. No woman that beautiful would be with a manlike that unless she were well paid! Mon Dieu! He was fat, fat, fat! A loudmouthed, overweight, obnoxious German!"Cloucharde winced momentarily as he shifted his weight, but heignored the pain and plowed on. "This man was abeast—three hundred pounds at least. He locked onto that poordear like she was about to run away—not that I'd blameher. I mean really! Hands all over her. Bragged that he had her allweekend for three hundred dollars! He's the one whoshould have dropped dead, not that poor Asian fellow."Cloucharde came up for air, and Becker jumped in.

"Did you get his name?"

Cloucharde thought for a moment and then shook his head."No idea." He winced in pain again and settled slowlyback into his pillows.

Becker sighed. The ring had just evaporated before his eyes.Commander Strathmore was not going to be happy.

Cloucharde dabbed at his forehead. His burst of enthusiasm hadtaken its toll. He suddenly looked ill.

Becker tried another approach. "Mr. Cloucharde, I'dlike to get a statement from the German and his escort as well. Doyou have any idea where they're staying?"

Cloucharde closed his eyes, his strength fading. His breathinggrew shallow.

"Anything at all?" Becker pressed. "Theescort's name?

There was a long silence.

Cloucharde rubbed his right temple. He was suddenly lookingpale. "Well … ah… no. I don't believe…" His voice was shaky.

Becker leaned toward him. "Are you all right?"

Cloucharde nodded lightly. "Yes, fine… just a little… the excitement maybe…" He trailed off.

"Think, Mr. Cloucharde." Becker urged quietly."It's important."

Cloucharde winced. "I don't know… the woman…the man kept calling her…" He closed his eyes andgroaned.

"What was her name?"

"I really don't recall…" Cloucharde wasfading fast.

"Think." Becker prodded. "It's importantthat the consular file be as complete as possible. I'll needto support your story with statements from the other witnesses. Anyinformation you can give me to help locate them…"

But Cloucharde was not listening. He was dabbing his foreheadwith the sheet. "I'm sorry… perhaps tomorrow…" He looked nauseated.

"Mr. Cloucharde, it's important you remember this now." Becker suddenly realized he was speaking too loudly.People on nearby cots were still sitting up watching what was goingon. On the far side of the room a nurse appeared through the doubledoors and strode briskly toward them.

"Anything at all," Becker pressed urgently.

"The German called the woman—"

Becker lightly shook Cloucharde, trying to bring him back.

Cloucharde's eyes flickered momentarily. "Her name…"

Stay with me, old fella…

"Dew…" Cloucharde's eyes closed again. Thenurse was closing in. She looked furious.

"Dew?" Becker shook Cloucharde's arm.

The old man groaned. "He called her…" Clouchardewas mumbling now, barely audible.

The nurse was less than ten feet away yelling at Becker in angrySpanish. Becker heard nothing. His eyes were fixed on the oldman's lips. He shook Cloucharde one last time as the nursebore down on him.

The nurse grabbed David Becker's shoulder. She pulled himto his feet just as Cloucharde's lips parted. The single wordleaving the old man's mouth was not actually spoken. It wassoftly sighed—like a distant sensual remembrance."Dewdrop…"

The scolding grasp yanked Becker away.

Dewdrop? Becker wondered. What the hell kind of nameis Dewdrop? He spun away from the nurse and turned one lasttime to Cloucharde. "Dewdrop? Are you sure?"

But Pierre Cloucharde was fast asleep.