The mayor sank into the velvet cushions of an expensive-looking antique armchair. He retrieved the butt of his cigar from a crystal ashtray and set about lighting it. The other guy walked around the table to take his shot. When I saw his profile I recognized the cop from earlier that day, Antoine Bonnet. Bonnet observed the table, then looked up and saw me. There was a flash of recognition and surprise before he suppressed it, concentrating on the table. He shifted over and I saw the Police Chief Rigalle, across the green surface of the billiard table. Rigalle was lighting the mayor’s cigar and speaking in his ear, the mustache moving up and down.

Bonnet took his shot and missed the balls completely. He shrugged and came around the table.

“Keeler, you surprised me. I thought you had left us. Could have sworn that I dropped you off at the train station, and that you had actually boarded a train.” Bonnet extended his hand and I shook it enthusiastically. The cop looked good. An athletic late forties. Fresh in a pink collared shirt and dark blue slacks. I couldn’t help looking at his shoes, suede loafers in burgundy. Bonnet laughed. “You’re looking at my shoes?”

“Shoes make the man.”

He looked at mine, hiking boots with complicated-looking cross-hatching of canvas, fake suede, and boot lace. Like an ugly overgrown sneaker. Bonnet said, “I don’t even know how I would describe your shoes.”

“In that case it’s probably not worth trying.”

“You must be right.”

I shrugged. “Looks like I’ve got family here in town.”

He looked amused. “Is that right, you’re a Vaugeois?”

“In some form, yes.”

Simone Vaugeois tugged at my arm. “Come on, I want to introduce you to the mayor.”

Bonnet said, “I’ll catch you later, Keeler.”

I nodded at him, thought he was a pretty decent guy. Simone led me to the other side of the room. The mayor was lining up his shot. The police chief stood up cordially as the madame approached. “Monsieur Keeler.”

Madame Vaugeois said, “He has returned to the bosom of his French family.”

Rigalle found that amusing. “And it’s quite a family indeed.” He turned back to me. “Are you a billiards player?”

“Not really my thing. I can’t work out what it is they’re doing.”

“This is the real thing, Monsieur Keeler, it’s not eight ball.”

“It doesn’t make any sense to me. The balls bounce around and they hit each other. Looks to me like they have nowhere to go, but I’ll take your word for it.”

“There’s a quote that I love, ‘Show me a good pool player and I’ll show you a misspent youth.’ Mark Twain. Do you know it?”

“W.C. Fields, I think.”

Rigalle’s face reddened. “I’m happy to be corrected by a true American soldier.”