“Some of them belonged to my father.” She picked the book I’d been reading off the table for a moment and then tossed it back. “Including that one. Russian Glory, by Philip Jordan. What’s it about?”

“It’s a sort of panegyric about Stalin and the Russian people, and the evils of capitalism.”

“Why on earth were you reading that?”

“It’s like meeting a rather naïve old friend. For a while during the war it was the only book that was available to me.”

“That sounds uncomfortable.”

“It was. But you were telling me about why you’re so keen to learn the game of bridge.”

“How much do you know about William Somerset Maugham? The writer.”

“Enough to know that he wouldn’t be interested in you, Mrs. French. For one thing you’re not young enough. And for another, you’re the wrong sex.”

“That’s true. Which is why I want to learn bridge. I was thinking it might provide me with the means of getting to meet him. From what I’ve heard, he plays cards almost every night.”

“Why do you want to meet him?”

“I’m a big fan of his writing. He’s perhaps the greatest novelist alive today. Certainly the most popular. Which is why he can afford to live down here in such splendor at the Villa Mauresque.”

“You’re not doing so bad yourself.”

“I’m renting this place. I don’t own it. I wish I did.”

“What’s the real reason you want to meet him?”

“I don’t know what you mean. Maybe you didn’t notice it, but I have an entire collection of his first editions and I would dearly like him to sign them all before—before he dies. He is very old. Which of course would make them worth a lot more. I suppose there’s that.”

“We’re getting warmer,” I said. “But I’ll bet that’s still not the real reason. You don’t look like a book dealer. Not in those pants.”

Anne French bridled a little.

“All right then, it’s because I have an offer from an American publisher called Victor Weybright to write his biography,” she said. “Fifty thousand dollars, to be precise.”

“That’s a much better reason. Or to be more accurate, fifty thousand of them.”

“I’d really like to meet him, but as you’ve observed I’m the wrong sex.”

“Why don’t you just write to him and tell him about the book?”