in Rome, sliding from city to city, and doing the smoothest forging and cheque-raising and counterfeiting and flimflam work of the century."
"But as you say, she certainly doesn't look the part."
"She sure doesn't," admitted Wilsnach. "Poucher's got a theory that the old man hypnotises the girl and makes her do the work without knowing she does it. But that's fantastic. I don't even think it's worth considering."
Wilsnach stared down at his paper again, for at the moment Kestner was speaking sotto voce to a withered-cheeked old man with a trayful of street-toys. He was speaking to the camelot in the patois of the street.
"Galipaux, pipe that woman at the sixth table on my left. Lift her handbag when you get the chance. Take your time about it, and whatever you do, don't mess the job!"
The old toy-vender called Galipaux neither answered nor looked back. He merely passed on his way through the jostling crowd. Kestner continued to puddle lazily with his melted mousse au chocolat.
"What's your theory?" he finally asked.
"I rather think the old man's a nut. As far as we can gather, he was an expert accountant in his time, and later swung into bankwork. Then he fell. He always claimed it was a frame-up. But he did four years in Sing Sing—was the school teacher in the prison there—before the other man confessed. That soured him, and he just went bad after that. He did
