The Bridge That Broke<br />Presentation<br />IT was a Tuesday afternoon in midsummer. Paris was deserted&mdash;a city<br />of the dead. Jim Barnett sat in his office with his feet on his desk.<br />He was in his shirt-sleeves. A glass of lager beer stood al his elbow. A green blind shut out the blazing sun. To the prejudiced eye, Barnett&#39;s appearance would have suggested slumber, and this impression would have been strengthened by his rather loud and rhythmical<br />breathing.<br />A sharp tap on his door made him bring his feet down with a jerk<br />and sit bolt upright.<br />&#39;No! It can&#39;t be! The heat must be affecting my eyesight.&#39; Barnett<br />affected elaborate astonishment...