the centre of each table was a candle within a lantern, these were the only sources of light. Shadows flickered against the dark red and green and yellow foliage; the hum was the hum of contentment, rising but still quiet crescendos of laughter; perfectly groomed, perfectly dressed manikins in slow motion, all seemingly waiting for the nocturnal games to begin.
This was the manikins' good hour. When manners and studied grace and minor subtleties were important. Later it would be different; other things would become important... and too often ugly. Which is why James Ferguson knew his drunken pretence had been plausible last night.
And why Charles Whitehall arrogantly, quietly, had thrown the napkins across the table onto the floor. To clean up the foreigner's mess.
'You look pensive. Or disagreeable,' said Alison as he pulled out the chair to sit down.
'Not really.'
'What happened? What did the police say? I half expected a call from them.'
McAuliff had rehearsed his reply, but before delivering it he gestured at the cup of coffee and the brandy glass in front of Alison. 'You've had dinner, I guess.'
'Yes. I was famished. Haven't you?'
'No. Keep me company?'
'Of course. I'll dismiss the eunuchs.'
He ordered a drink. 'You have a lovely smile. It's sort of a laugh.'
'No sidetracking. What happened?'
McAuliff lied quite well, he thought. Certainly better - at least more persuasively - than before. He told Alison he had spent nearly two hours with the police. Westmore Tallon had furnished him with the address and even described the interior of the main headquarters; it had been Tallon's idea for him to know the general details. One could never tell when they were important.
'They backed up Latham's theory. They say it's hit-and-run. They also hinted that Piersall had a diversion or two that was closeted. He was run down in a very rough section.'
'That sounds suspiciously pat to me. They're covering themselves.' The girl's eyebrows furrowed, her expression one of disbelief.
'They may be,' answered Alex casually, sincerely. 'But they can't tie him to Sam Tucker, and that's my only concern.'
'He is tied. He told me.'
'And I told them. They've sent men to Carrick Foyle, that's where Piersall lived. In Trelawny. Others are going over his things at the Sheraton. If they find anything, they'll call me.' McAuliff felt that he was carrying off the lie. He was, after all, only bending the truth. The arthritic Westmore Tallon was doing these things.
'And you're satisfied with that? You're just going to take their word for it? You were awfully troubled about Mr Tucker a few hours ago.'
'I still am,' said Alex, putting down his glass and looking at her. He had no need to lie now. 'If I don't hear from Sam by late tonight... or tomorrow morning, I'm going to go to the American Embassy and yell like hell.'
'Oh... all right. Did you mention the little buggers this morning? You never told me.'
'The what?'
'Those bugs in your luggage. You said you were supposed to report them.'
Again McAuliff felt a wave of inadequacy; it irked him that he wasn't keeping track of things. Of course, he hadn't seen Tallon earlier, had not received his instructions, but that was no explanation. 'I should have listened to you last night. I can just get rid of them; step on them, I guess.'
'There's a better way.'
'What's that?'
'Put them someplace else.'
'For instance?'
'Oh, somewhere harmless but with lots of traffic. It keeps the tapes rolling and people occupied.'
McAuliff laughed; it was not a false laugh. 'That's very funny. And very practical. Where?'
Alison brought her hands to her chin; a mischievous little girl thinking mischievously. 'It should be within a hundred yards or so - that's usually the range tolerance. And where there's a great deal of activity... Let's see. I complimented the headwaiter on the red snapper. I'll bet he'd bring me to the chef to get the recipe.'
'They love that sort of thing,' added Alex. 'It's perfect. Don't go away. I'll be right back,'
Alison Booth, former liaison to Interpol, reported that two electronic devices were securely attached to the permanent laundry hamper under the salad table in the Courtleigh Manor kitchen. She had slipped them in - and pushed them down - along with a soiled napkin, as an enthusiastic chef described the ingredients of his Jamaican red snapper sauce.
'The hamper was long, not deep,' she explained as McAuliff finished the last of his dinner. 'I pressed rather hard; the adhesive will hold quite well, I think.'