In Over Her Head by Elsie Russell - Parnasse.com

Catholic. Someone had been thoughtful enough to slip the wedding
band back on his finger. At least another day had past, because a silky
St. John the Baptist beard was sprouting from his ashen cheeks. He
shuddered, thinking of the tiny Moreau sketch in Dick's guest
bathroom and of the ring that sealed his fate.
Züt clip-clopped up the hall with an attendant who unlocked
his cage and let him out so he could follow them for another complete
physical. This time the doctor seemed preoccupied, too surly for drama.
He didn't even say goodbye when Sandro was handed his cleaned suit,
polished shoes and the Baggie with his personal belongings. After he
was dressed and had forced down a cup of battery acid strength
American coffee, Züt's goons dumped him at Kennedy where he got
on the first plane to Heathrow.
First stop, Saville Rowe and Steeds, for a couple of real suits.
He would need them for this mission. Some real banker's suits. Suits
that said "I am a player." Then Poole's, for a new tuxedo as the jacket
was ruined in the course of that infernal evening, and some shirts. No
more head games, the trick shirts were going to the Salvation first thing.
Lunch with Mr Tapir from the bowels of the Courtauld
Institute was a success. The Institute didn't pay well, so the guy
smuggled art on the side, but unless Tapir was lying, he knew where the
missing Angel of the Annunciation was, and that it was for sale,
perhaps even legally.
Next stop Paris, for Operation Boca della Verita, before
hopping on a train across the Alps for loot and then back across to the
bank.
Sandro sat under the leering Pan, stirring his espresso as he
listened to Pete, who was settled across from him with his legal pad and
the usual bag of laundry. After each sentence Pete coughed up a gob of
phlegm as yellow as the paper on his pad. Hard at work, he had devised
through a funnel of acquaintances gathered during the research for his
book, a plan for Sandro, beginning with a flood of anonymous letters
to well placed individuals and publications.
Outside on the sidewalk, the newsboy waved the latest issue of
the left wing rag and yelled "Libé, Libération!" Market trucks honked
and school children razored past.
Pete's raspy voice had difficulty rising above this din. "These
lettres de cachet or lettres corbeau, as they have come to be called after
this old French film... well they began as far back as roman times! La
délation, that's from the Latin, you know Latin, right?"
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