“She’s also good for business.” Her hotel chain had yesterday ordered one hundred and twenty water-purification systems.

“She’s the apple of my eye,” said Silkleigh. “‘The apples of the daughters of the evening star.’ Isn’t that so?”

“Senator Zamora says they were oranges,” said Wavery.

“That’s by the by,” said Silkleigh. “To tell you the truth, today was not the day for showing myself in all my glory.” He drew up a sleeve and caressed his left arm where he had been stung by a sea wasp. The amethyst mark ran from wrist to elbow like a whiplash. “I’ve put some ointment on, which I hope bloody soulages the douleur, but it hurts like a bitch. Like sticking your finger in a socket.” Gingerly, he pulled down the sleeve. “Of course, the best thing with a sting from the sea is urine. Get your friends to pee on you.”

For the first time he appeared to notice the hole in the ceiling. “Fuck a duck,” he whistled, abandoning his packing case. He stood staring. “And how long may I ask does Majesty have the pleasure of staying with you?”

“Just one night,” said Wavery. She might stay a second, depending on whether or not she attended the bullfight. But he wasn’t going to vouchsafe that to Silkleigh.

Wavery followed him out into the hallway. “I’m not surprised,” Silkleigh was saying over his shoulder. “They’re the most dishonest people and that’s that. The more you give, the more they swallow.” He pulled a face at himself in the mirror. He inclined his head, stirring his bald patch with a finger, his eyes angled upwards.

“I like that,” he said. He had noticed Penny’s portrait in the mirror. He walked up to it. “The missus?”

“It is by her.”

“Does she do a lot of painting?”

“It’s her thing, really,” said Wavery.

“Sisyphus, I suppose.”

“Yes,” said Wavery, disconcerted.

“‘It is necessary to imagine Sisyphus happy’”, murmured Silkleigh. “Camus said that.” Silkleigh’s thumb jerked over his shoulder, up the stairs. “Mind if I . . . ?”

Wavery led him into the Royal Suite and Silkleigh kneeled by the hole in the floor. He gazed down to where they had been sitting, then drew back his eyes into the bedroom. “And all this for one night—” He stepped over the hole, to the window. He shook the brass handle. “Window not open?” he said. The frames had been freshly painted and thick coats of gloss had cemented them together. “Good view of the maro.” He pressed his nose to the glass and waved at Genia Ortiz below. Startled by the rattling, she looked up. While she could not be positive, the face at the balcony window did not seem to belong to Wavery’s bonne à tout faire.

Downstairs, the telephone rang. It stopped as soon as Wavery reached the hall. He returned to the Royal Suite, but it was empty. He found Silkleigh on the terrace. The diver had walked through his bedroom. He was watching Ham stroll over a towel on the wall, in her mouth a large grasshopper. He tried to remove it, but she leaped over his hand and darted up into the tree.