In the lobby there were two plainclothes cops waiting for me and already making a silent inventory of my face, my manner, my morning coat, the way I walked—their eyes were all over me like ants. I knew they were cops because plainclothes always appear a little too plain in a grand hotel. Cops are the same the world over; they usually look as if they belong somewhere else, somewhere second-rate like the Soviet Union, or Alaska, where cheap suits, tight shoes, and creased shirts with yesterday’s collars are almost standard uniform. These two looked like a couple of dull rocks in a silver punch bowl. I ushered them quickly into the back office in case they disturbed the chandeliers or Monsieur Charrieres, the hotel manager, caught a distressing sight of them. For a brief moment I thought they were there to speak to Hebel and wondered how long it would be before he tried to make a deal with them that involved me, but to my surprise, they were there to ask me about Antimo Spinola. They showed their greasy plastic identity cards and muttered their names through a blue cloud of French cigarette smoke, but I was hardly paying attention because I was now more worried that I might miss my appointment with Hebel than I was about any acquaintance I had with Antimo Spinola. The Italian could look after himself; or so I thought. There was five thousand dollars in it if I handled Maugham’s blackmail money without a hitch—more than enough to buy a new car. Or a ticket to somewhere else; increasingly, somewhere else was a place I was keen to visit.

“How well do you know him?” asked one of the cops.

“Spinola? I play cards with him twice a week at the Hotel Voile d’Or in Cap Ferrat. He’s my bridge partner. Which is to say, not well at all. Bridge is that kind of game. Too interesting for a lot of what-did-you-do-today talk.”

“For how long have you played together?”

“Oh, perhaps a couple of years. As long as I’ve worked here, anyway.”

“It’s a beautiful hotel.”

“Isn’t it? So much beauty.” I almost added, “But so much sadness, too. It’s a beautiful, sad world, I think, that has some beautiful, sad people in it,” only you don’t speak to cops like that when they’re asking questions. Not if you want them to leave you alone.

“Is bridge a game involving money?”

“It can be. But not for us.”

“How did you meet?”

“We were introduced. I can’t remember by who. Someone at the Voile perhaps.”

“Two years isn’t very long. Surely you can remember.”

“You would think so. Perhaps the barman at the Voile. Maurice. Nice fellow. Good barman.”