“I take it you don’t mean Somerset Maugham.”

“No, not him. Someone else.”

She laughed. “Jesus Christ, not another one. This is more than a scandal. It’s an epidemic. Who’s the spook this time?”

“Someone called Roger Hollis.”

“Never heard of him.”

“You’re not supposed to have heard of him if he’s a spy.”

“God, is he queer, too? Like the other two?”

“I don’t think so. He’s been married for almost twenty years.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“It used to mean that you liked women enough to want to spend your life with one. That’s how it always was for me, at any rate.”

“You surprise me. Anyway, not in England. Lots of queers get married just for show. Look at Somerset Maugham. He was married for a lot longer than twenty years.”

“Yes, I’d forgotten about his wife.”

“He didn’t. He couldn’t. Although he did his level best to forget her. Poor Syrie. I think she must have had an awful time with that miserable old bastard. I feel so, so sorry for her.” She sighed crossly. “Christ, I hate men.”

“Leaving that aside for a moment—on account of the fact I happen to be a man myself, last time I looked—I thought you admired the old buzzard.”

“As a writer, yes. But as a human being? No. Not for a minute. At least, that’s the conclusion I’ve come to. Where are they now? The two English spymasters.”

“At the Belle Aurore Hotel. In Villefranche.”

“They’re not staying at the Villa Mauresque?”

“No. Lucky them.”

“Why not? I thought he asked them to come here from London.”

“He did, but they insisted on bringing their own personal security with them. The men with guns I was telling you about. Two thugs from Portsmouth. I expect they’re just nervous travelers. French waiters can be quite intimidating.”

“How long are they here for?”

“A couple of days, I’d have thought. Until this affair is concluded. Frankly, Patrick Reilly seemed rather more interested in a cricket match.”

“England versus Australia.”

“That’s something else I don’t understand. England is about to send troops into Egypt and everyone who’s English is more interested in a cricket match.”

“What’s the other thing you don’t understand?”

“You, of course. I think there’s something you’re not telling me.”

“Oh?”

“And I suspect that when you finally get around to it I’m going to find it just as hard to comprehend as a game of cricket. Perhaps harder.”

“Cricket’s really not that hard to understand. And nor am I.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“I’m just tired, I guess.”