Monsieur Anselme Roche had made watches for kings, or so he claimed.
He was a small, round, bald man of seventy, with magnifying glasses strapped over his spectacles and ink-stained fingers, and he arrived at the Crew mansion the next morning in a taxi, carrying a leather case no bigger than a lunch box. Benson received him in the hall as though he were a visiting ambassador. Rosa fussed over his coat. Olivia, drawn by the commotion, came out of the sunroom and looked him up and down.
"You're very short," she observed.
"And you, madam, are very honest," said Monsieur Roche, bowing. "I find the two go together."
"Hm." She almost smiled. "Percy likes you. He's stopped screeching."
"Percy has good taste."
