She was sitting in a cafe in Paris, showing nearly all her legs; in grave trouble, she was drinking her sixth green Chartreuse and wishing she knew someone who would kill her stepmother for her. She was just eighteen, a child emotionally but old in experience and duplicity. The man with the umbrella who sat down at her table seemed exactly the one for whom she was searching. They were both lonely and found in each other the playmate for which they had longed. He was a man caught in a monster trap; it was murder she wanted and murder she got.