“Last night? I had dinner at the Villa Mauresque. With Mr. Somerset Maugham, the famous writer. He’s a very private sort of man, as I expect you know, but I’m sure he won’t mind confirming my alibi. Assuming I need one.” I lit a cigarette and paused, checking out their sweating, swarthy faces, which were almost as creased and nondescript as their clothes. “Look, would you mind telling me what this is all about? Is Monsieur Spinola in some kind of trouble? Is he all right? I think now would be a good time to tell me if something has happened. And why you’re asking me all these questions.”

Up to now we’d been doing just fine using the present tense; but then, the way cops do sometimes, they changed it, they went straight to the past tense with just a short, sharp delay that explained Spinola’s current situation all too clearly. You might have said it was brutal except that there’s no way to sweeten words like these; best just to spit them out like tacks.

“He’s dead, I’m afraid. Monsieur Spinola was murdered. Someone shot him at his home late last night.”

“We found your hotel business card by his telephone. And your name in his diary for tomorrow evening. The casino isn’t open today so we thought we’d come and see you first.”

Feeling the honor, I nodded slowly. “Tomorrow evening—that would be our regular game of bridge at the Voile. Shot? How? I mean, where was he shot?”

“Once, through the heart.”

I kept on nodding but I was thinking about Hebel’s gun now pressing against my kidney like a giant stone, and remembering that it had been cleaned and recently; you could still smell the gun oil in the muzzle. Not that it’s difficult to get hold of a gun on the Riviera. There was a gun shop in Villefranche. And the French have the most relaxed gun laws in Europe. Hitler could have bought a gun without much of a problem. Easy enough after buying the whole French army.

“Do you own a gun, monsieur?”

“Me? No. Guns tend to frighten the guests. Even the Americans, oddly enough. Generally speaking, we find that we can make them pay their bills without too much of a problem.”

“Was he scared of anyone? Did he seem upset about anything?”

“No.”

“You don’t seem that upset about the death of Monsieur Spinola.”

“Oh, but I am. Good bridge partners are rather hard to come by.”

“That’s a pretty callous thing to say.”

“Obviously you don’t play bridge. Let’s just say that I’m most upset about something when I appear to be taking it lightly.”

“Any ideas as to who might have killed him?”