She was young, faintly pretty, and all business. Bucky thought she would eventually mature into the stern-faced, gray-haired spinster behind the circulation counter, the stereotypical librarian who would go home at the end of a day to her cat and one-room flat, if, in fact, his contact was a librarian. “How may I help you?” she said.

Bucky had explained. “You will be contacted,” she’d said.

And so he waited, Dirk Drechsler hovering and fuming.

A ray of hope had appeared that Monday morning. As Bucky stepped out of the boardinghouse on his way to work, a check of the bottom doorstep called for a trip to the tree. He set off at once to answer the summons and would later explain his tardiness to his supervisor, his OSS facilitator, who would understand. In the park he found a single command in the depository: Wait on the bench.

Bucky followed the order, wondering how long he’d have to wait before someone showed up. He had not long to worry. Before his feet began to get cold, a man past middle age carrying a paper sack strolled into the park with the obvious aim to share the bench with Bucky. He surmised the man and his sack must be a regular visitor to the spot since a flock of pigeons in the bare trees appeared to be on the lookout for him.

The man acknowledged Bucky with a perfunctory nod as he sat down at the far end and opened the sack, apparently a signal that instantly drew the flock of birds down from the trees to swarm about his feet. Chagrined, Bucky watched him fling the bread, worried how his contact would know which of them to approach. The luxuriousness of the man’s fur-lined overcoat and matching Russian-style cap, and the wanton sharing of a staple scarce to other Parisians, pegged him as a resident of the affluent neighborhood. Indeed, the sunny weather had drawn a number of his well-heeled contemporaries out of their doors to stroll arm in arm about the park.

While Bucky pondered what to do, the man said, “Victor Hugo used to sit here. Did you know that, monsieur?”

Bucky sucked in his breath. His contact! He took a stab at the appropriate response. “Victor Hugo. I’ve heard that name recently.”

The man flicked a crust crumb to the frantically pecking pigeons. “Where?”

“In the public library not far from the Quai André-Citroën.”

“Ah, yes. I was instructed to give you this to pass to your friend.” He handed Bucky a folded note, its ends stapled together. “Tell him to follow the instructions printed inside to the letter. Now tell me what you know about this man, what you have observed of his character, personality, temperament, physical condition, predilections, ability to withstand hardship. Do express your personal feelings about him, monsieur. They are important.”