“What appalling creatures,” said Queesal. His eyes washed over Ghanem the Mute, Don Ramon the grocer and the bellboy, Gallo, strumming his guitar.

“And these people, you know them?”

“I do as a matter of fact,” said Wavery.

“Really, it’s too bad.” The lights bent the shadow of Queesal’s spectacles along his cheek. He was sniffing.

“Come now, make room,” came a voice and Silkleigh appeared the other side of Queesal. He looked the two Englishmen up and down. “Who’s been rattling your cages?”

“George Queesal, Joseph Silkleigh,” said Wavery. The lights dimmed in the café as the two men shook hands. Wavery mouthed, “Foreign Office.”

“Pleased to meet you, Sir George.”

On stage Rosita stepped forward. Her eyes were closed, but small convulsions disturbed their lids. She folded her arms, elevating them. “Cabelo branco é saudade da mocidade perdida,” she began. Her voice rolled through the café. “As vezes ñao é a idade, são os desgostos da vida.”

Queesal coughed. “Oughtn’t to have left the bathroom,” he said.

“Here. Drink that,” said Silkleigh, passing Queesal his glass. “Drowns out the sound.”

Willing to try anything which might accomplish what Silkleigh promised, the Foreign Office Inspector lowered his lips into a glass of Satan’s Whiskers.

Silkleigh wriggled off his stool and came between Wavery and Queesal.

“So who’s the ippety-oy with the bad breath?”

“He’s from London. He’s come to see how I’m getting on.”

“How are you getting on?”

“I don’t think,” said Wavery, “that he’s very happy.”

“Silly fish,” said Silkleigh, who was very happy. He wanted Wavery to be as happy as he was. He owed his felicity to the woman in the tinted car. “Who shall be nameless but who calls herself Cochabamba.”

Silkleigh had invited her to see Persadilla en Elm Street 5. Even now the memory filled him with a lurid expression. He thought of her mahogany whispers, the hollow in her ankles like the base of a young tree, her breasts yearning against a white angora jersey that reached not quite to her waist, unlike her hair, but afforded him a glimpse of a thin dark wedge of flesh almost as enticing to him as her wrist.

“I tell you, old soul,” he whispered, “she’s eine kleine piece of nacht muziko. She’s the juice. One of the friendliest girls you’ve ever seen. A smile that curls itself around her face and says, I’ve got a thousand secrets and I’m not going to tell you one of them.” A finger tugged at his right eyelid. “The woman. Is. Beautiful.”

She came originally from Excellency’s neck of the woods. Bolivia. Probably she was the only one who might have seen Periclito fight a bull! Her father had emigrated from Tetuan after independence. She now worked for a hotel chain in Rabat. Her company wished to build an international hotel in Abyla. She was here on a preliminary tour of inspection.

“She’s interested in my water purifiers,” said Silkleigh. “Extremely interested, old soul.” There was talk of a contract for the entire chain. Her interest extended to his boat. She loved diving too!