Unintended Consequences

filling his pockets with the detritus that travels with every man: wallet, cash, keys, cell phone, linen handkerchief, comb—the works. He stopped when he picked up the envelope containing the stack of euros from his briefcase, took them out and counted them. Apart from the €100 used to pay his taxi from the airport, it was mostly €200 and €500 notes. It came to €20,000, less the €100 for the cabdriver. He was shocked; he would never travel with that much cash; what were credit cards for? He locked the stack in the safe in his closet and got into his jacket.
    Ten minutes later he was standing in front of the hotel when a black Maybach, the Mercedes-built limousine, glided to a halt. The doorman tapped on the passenger-side window. “For Mr. Barrington?” He got his answer, then opened the rear door for Stone.
    “Good evening, Mr. Barrington,” the driver said.
    “Good evening.” He didn’t ask where they were going or who his host might be; after all, he was supposed to know. The car moved silently down the street, and he made himself comfortable in the large, reclining seat.
    Nearly half an hour later the car was in the Bois de Boulogne, the forested park on the outskirts of Paris, more than twice the size of New York’s Central Park. They passed a couple of women standing next to parked cars.
    “Damsels in distress?” Stone asked the driver.
    “Hardly, sir, they are prostitutes, what you call in America ‘hookers.’ The authorities keep trying to root them out, but they always spring up again, like weeds.”
    “Ah,” Stone said, not knowing what else to say.
    Shortly, they turned into a drive lined with flower beds on each side, and a couple of hundred yards later drew to a halt before a large, handsome, and well-lit house. A servant, dressed as an eighteenth-century footman, opened Stone’s door and showed him into the house.
    A butler greeted him. “Mr. Barrington, I presume?”
    “Yes,” Stone replied.
    “One moment, please.” The butler let himself through a set of double doors, leaving Stone alone for a moment.
    A stack of mail rested on a hall table, and Stone took the opportunity to glance at it. Everything was addressed to M. Marcel duBois.
    The butler returned. “This way, please, Mr. Barrington.” He led the way down the hall to another set of doors and preceded Stone into the room. “Mr. Stone Barrington,” he announced to the group of a dozen or so people arrayed about a large, two-story, richly paneled library.
    A handsome, white-haired man of sixty-something broke away from the pack and came toward Stone, his hand extended.
    “Ah, Stone,” the man said, grasping his hand warmly. “So good to have you in my home.”
    “Thank you for having me, M’sieur duBois,” Stone said.
    “Please, it’s Marcel. We are all on a first-name basis here.”
    “Thank you, Marcel.”
    DuBois clapped his hands for silence. “Everyone,” he said, “this is M’sieur Stone Barrington, who is visiting from New York.” DuBois led him around to various groups, introducing him. It was an international group—French, Italian, British, and one or two accents Stone couldn’t place, and he couldn’t register all the names, except one. She had nearly white-blond hair and was a very tall woman in her high heels, taller than Stone, who was six-two. Her name was Helga Becker, and he was determined to remember that. She was wearing a strapless black dress, and Stone tried to pry his eyes from her décolletage.
    “It is a pleasure to meet you, Stone,” Helga said. “I’ve heard so much about you.” German, he figured, from her name and accent.
    “I’m very pleased to meet you, Helga,” he replied, “and I hope you’ve not heard too much.”
    She laughed, a low sound, and flashed perfect teeth. “Not nearly enough,” she said.
    Stone now noticed that all the women were dressed in black, though not all in the same style. Somehow they and the men, who were in black, as well, gave the elegant surroundings even more elegance. “Did you and all the other women collaborate on your evening wear?” he asked.
    “Ha. No, our invitations specified black. Every woman has a black dress, after all.”
    “Do women not see that as an infringement by their host on their right to choose their own colors?”
    “With any other host, perhaps, but not with Marcel. He is in every other way too kind. You are a New Yorker, Marcel said. What is your business there?”
    “I am an