“To be honest, neither one of them was at fault. And yet there was something lacking. With only my book for company, I fear it was nothing that can be easily remedied by anyone here in the Grand Hôtel.”

“Then might I ask what it is you’re reading, Mrs. French?” My manners have improved a lot since I started working in hotels again. Sometimes I sound almost civil.

She opened her crocodile-leather dispatch bag and showed me her book: The Quiet American by Graham Greene. My cop’s eyes took quick note of the bottle of Mystikum, a sheaf of French francs, a gold compact, and a little purple screw-top tin that might have contained a powder puff but more probably contained her diaphragm.

“Not one I’ve read,” I said.

“No. But I think you’ve probably forgotten more about how to render an American acceptably quiet than Graham Greene has ever learned.” She smiled. “Poor Mr. Biltmore. Let’s hope he puts his sore head down to alcohol tomorrow and not your fist.”

“Oh, you saw that. Pity. I had thought the bar was empty.”

“I was seated behind a pillar. But you handled it very well. Like an expert. I’d say you’ve done that kind of thing before. Professionally.”

I shrugged. “The hotel business always presents a number of interesting challenges.”

“If you say so.”

“Perhaps I can recommend something else for you to read,” I offered, hurrying to change the subject.

“Why not? You are a concierge, after all. Although in my own experience playing Robert Benchley is perhaps above and beyond the call of your normal duties.”

I mentioned a book by Albert Camus that had impressed me.

“No, I don’t like him,” she said. “He’s too French for my tastes. Too political, as well. But now that I think about it, maybe you could recommend a book about bridge. I’d like to learn the game and I know you play it often, Mr. Wolf.”

“I’d be happy to lend you some of my own books, Mrs. French. Anything by Terence Reese or S. J. Simon would do, I think.”

“Better still, you could teach me the game yourself. I’d be happy to pay you for some private lessons.”

“I’m afraid my duties here wouldn’t really permit that, Mrs. French. On second thought, I think you’re probably best to start with Iain Macleod’s Bridge Is an Easy Game.”

If she was disappointed she didn’t show it. “That sounds just right. Will you bring it tomorrow?”

“Of course. I regret I won’t be here to give it you myself, Mrs. French, but I’ll certainly leave it with one of my colleagues.”

“You’re not working tomorrow? Pity. I enjoy our little chats.”

I smiled diplomatically and bowed. “Always glad to be of service, Mrs. French.”

In bridge that’s what we call No Bid.

THREE