I hurried back to the hotel, eager to tell Lori about my morning's adventures.  I entered the lobby and asked the desk clerk to let Miss D'Amico know I'd arrived.  I might have guessed who would be on duty.

      "D'Amico?"  He stared at me with tired eyes that warned I should have done my homework more thoroughly.  "Miss D'Amico checked out."

      Bong!  "Checked out?  You mean she's gone?"

      The clerk saw no point in repeating what I had clearly heard the first time.

      I was profoundly shocked and a more than little hurt.  What was going on?  What had happened to all that Argyle generosity?  Had John Flannery suffered a drastic change of heart?  Was my sordid little empire no longer worth his interest?  Somehow none of this rang true.  I felt sure Lori wasn't like that - she would have left a message, some kind of explanation.

      "Aren't there any messages for me?" I asked.

      "Name?" he asked.  The economy of words suited his lack of charm.

      "I am Richard Downing, and I occupy Room 405," I said.

      The clerk looked through a file and announced blandly that I too had checked out.

      "There, there!" I cried.  "How forgetful of me!  Did I by any chance settle my bill or am I to be sued for performing a moonlight flit?"

      He stared back as though one of us was an idiot.

      "Do I owe you money?" I emphasized each word deliberately.

      Luckily no other guests were near enough to overhear this embarrassing conversation, apart from an elderly lady who sat in the far corner.  She was either too absorbed in her magazine or too deaf to take any interest in my circumstances.

      "Mr. Downing?" the clerk mumbled, fingering through a pile of notes on his desk.

      "I still believe so," I replied, "though perhaps even my identity has been stripped from me while my back was turned.  Look, I hate to be a nuisance - after all, this is only a hotel - but when I foolishly checked out this morning in a rare fit of amnesia, did I by any chance take my luggage with me?  Or have my paltry possessions been distributed among the poor in some remote corner of the globe?"

      "Your bags are waiting for collection in the office."

      The clerk led the way to where my suitcases stood lined up.  I told him that whoever had thought up this practical joke had gone too far.  I was about to pick up my cases and walk all the way to the Hilton, when I noticed on top of them a white envelope, addressed to me.  I opened it.

      "Sorry for the melodrama!  John's idea, not mine.  Please take your cases to the parking lot.  I'll explain when I see you.  Lori."

      Convinced that I was being watched by a TV crew from Candid Camera, I followed Lori's instructions, not forgetting to thank the desk clerk for his dedication in the face of insurmountable adversity.

      Outside in the hot sunshine I set the cases down and waited.  Within moments a car drew up alongside, the passenger door was flung open, and a familiar voice invited me to climb aboard.  Sitting at the wheel was the same little old lady I seen reading in the lobby.

      "Didn't recognise me, did you!" she crowed.  "Hurl your bags in the back and I'll explain as we go."

      I was so relieved to find I hadn't been entirely abandoned, I forgot my resentment at once and climbed in beside the driver.

      "Had a good day?" she asked.

      "Not bad."  Out of sheer perversity, I chose not to raise the obvious subject.  "Nice car!  What is it?"

      "Pontiac six thousand."

      "Suits you.  Sleek and sporty!"

      "So, what have you learned this morning?" she enquired casually as we joined the main stream of lunchtime traffic.  She likewise was enjoying the suspense of withholding sorely needed explanations.

      "I had cake and champagne," I said.  "I met an astronaut and made a promising contact in the computer room.  I then got kidnapped by a little old lady who hopefully thought to retrieve my toothbrush from the bathroom, and I can't start my new job till August."

      "Good," she said, and leaned forward to concentrate on her driving, screwing up her eyes as if desperately short-sighted.

      "My name, by the way, is Richard Downing," I announced, "and I'm an escaped convict, wanted in thirty-two states for forgery and false pretences!"

      "Glad to know you, Richard.  Do you like Chinese food?"

      "We had no other choice in Sing-Sing.  So how was your day?"

      "I had a call from John in Harrisburg," she said.  "He got cold feet about me being seen hanging around with you."

      "It's the story of my life!  All my girl-friends say the same after the first week.  I'm beginning to think it must be my socks!  You did check under the bed for socks?"

      "The hotel manager did that.  It's all there, have no fear."

      She turned to give me a brief but wonderfully reassuring smile.

      "You look so cute when you do that," I said.  "You remind me of a girl I met recently - a lot younger than you, though."  I snapped my fingers.   "Oh, now what the dickens was her name?  Lorna?  Laura something ..."

      "You don't mean Lori D'Amico?"

      "No," I replied with a face of stone.  "No, that name doesn't ring a bell somehow."

      "Actually, I'm Lori's mother," she said with an air of mischievous pride.  "Such a sweet girl, don't you think?  We're all very proud of her!"

      "I knew it!  Recognised the family likeness in the lobby."

      "No, you didn't," she insisted.  "You did not!  I was watching you, and you didn't even stroll over and offer me lunch.  You were too steamed up about your missing bags and your deflated ego.  God, you English can be so sarcastic when you get upset."

      "Not in the least," I denied.  "I merely dislike inefficiency, that's all."

      "Just because you didn't remember checking out this morning, that made him inefficient?"

      "I give up," I said.  "I'm getting too old for this game."

      "Nonsense!  How old are you?"

      "Ho, ho!  Barely a third of your age."

      "Half," she cried, "come on, you must be at least half."

      She made a sweeping left turn and pulled into the vast parking lot of a shopping mall.  As we got out of the car, I took a closer look at Lori's disguise.

      "Actually," I admitted, "you look damned good.  I could almost fancy you if you were forty years younger."

      Lori waved a menacing umbrella and threatened to attack me if I didn't behave.  A nearby police officer eyed me sternly as though contemplating my immediate arrest for harassment of a defenceless old lady.

      "Come on, Grandma," I said loudly.  "You need fresh water for your pills."

      Inside the shopping mall Lori led the way to a Chinese restaurant.  We were ushered to a table where she received all the attention and deference deserving of old age.

      "So out with it," I said as we settled.  "What's the idea behind this old lady get-up?"

      "You noticed!" she exclaimed.  "I was afraid you might.  It is a bit theatrical, I admit, and damned hot too, if you must know."

      "Then why do it?" I asked, leaning forward sympathetically.  "Are you a determined masochist?"

      "I'm beginning to think I must be.  Seriously, John's worried that his interest in you-know-where might leak out prematurely.  He's taking a big gamble in putting his cards under your nose - so regard his faith in you as a true compliment.  I admit I put in a good word, here and there, but we are talking big business, Richard.  As for the new image, most of the  crew in that place know me only too well, and John thought if I ventured in there with you later on, I ought to disguise myself a little."

      "You call that a little?"

      "Admit I passed the test.  You looked right through me and hadn't a clue who I was.  Go on, admit it!  I fooled you."

      "Okay!  But where did you get all this gear?"

      "Most of it's good enough to pass on to young Lori when I've done with it."

      "You mean, in forty years' time?"

      Lori gave me a playful kick under the table.  "I picked up the grey wig for twenty dollars, and the shoes and thick stockings were next to nothing."

      I was about to remind Lori that she was wearing next to nothing when I first met her, but the moment was lost as a waiter came to take our order.

      "Anyway," she added, "I plan on fixing you too after lunch.  Then we're going in this evening as office cleaners."

      "I flatly refuse to become your maiden aunt," I said.

      "We'll find something a tad more ethnic for you, something as befits an illegal immigrant.  How do you fancy being Mexican?"

      "Look," I said, "if I get deported from this crazy country - and I probably shall the way things are going - I don't want to end up in Mexico.  Besides, what are we likely to learn if we become cleaners?  Won't the real cleaners complain if we suddenly show up?"

      "How's your Spanish?"

      "Beyond Olé and Paella, forget it."

      "Don't worry," she assured me.  "We'll work as a team.  Trust me.  Your Auntie Lori will see you don't run into any problems."

      "Fine!  And do I sleep in the computer room tonight, or have you and John arranged a tent for me down among the fireflies?"

      "We'll check back into the same hotel later, by which time you'll be someone else."

      "I see.  Will this require a Bill Clinton mask, or do I go around as Bugs Bunny?"

      "Some cynics might question the difference.  Choose whichever makes you more comfortable.  Remember, there's still the Hilton if you prefer."

      "I much prefer, actually.  But things are beginning to stir within certain walls, so it's best we stay close by.  There was a mysterious meeting this morning about the future of the company, and I want to keep an eye on things."

      "Well, there's always Room 422?  The previous occupant checked out this morning.  You could move in there."

      "Somehow it wouldn't feel the same without that other nice young lady's presence."

      "Actually it is already booked," she whispered, "for an equally nice, but slightly older lady."

      As I sat looking at her, even beneath that unflattering make-up, Lori's radiant face was fast rearranging my priorities.  The old lady paid for lunch with her daughter's credit card, and we took a casual stroll through the mall.

      "Wait there," she ordered, and disappeared inside a novelty shop, returning with something soft in a bag and a grin of private satisfaction on her face.

      "Now we'll buy you a colourful shirt and a mousey pullover," she said, pointing across to a men's outfitters.

      "Is this really essential?" I asked.  It was all getting a little out of hand.

      "No," she grinned, "nothing's essential.  But admit it's fun!  I bet, a week ago, you never imagined you'd be doing this."

      To oblige Lori - or was it her aunt? - I bought myself a lumberjack-style check shirt and a pullover.  I suggested getting some jeans, but she advised against it.

      "In shops like this," she explained, "pants come about eight feet long and have to be trimmed to the right length.  They'll do it for you, sure, but they'll spend two weeks thinking about it and we don't have the time nor the scissors.  How about sneakers?"

      My mother would have called them gym shoes, and would have been sorely offended if I'd worn them outside the tennis club.  But in my new role as a Hispanic immigrant, they looked ideal.  We took our prizes back to the car, and returned to the hotel.

      Lori smuggled me in through a side door and took me up to her room where I changed into the outfit she'd chosen.  Then she sat me in a chair by the window, and proceeded to alter my appearance with make-up, using a false moustache she'd bought in the novelty shop.

      As she worked on my transformation, she stood extremely close, concentrating intently on my face, and stepping back from time to time to gaze through half-closed eyelids as she assessed the effect from a distance before returning to make further fine adjustments.  Her attentiveness and proximity proved a memorable experience which ended all too soon.

      I was given a mirror to examine the results for myself, which came as a shock.  I saw someone clearly of Mexican parentage, who looked sorely in need of a meal, let alone a job.

      "Okay, Pedro," she said in a mock-Spanish accent, "Now you come down-a-stairs with me and we go check you into this-a nice hotel."

      "Hold on a minute!" I protested.  "I'm suffering from a severe identity crisis here.  I fly the Atlantic as Richard Downing, I spend all morning trying to be Abraham Lincoln, and now you come and doll me up like Alf Porilo?"

      "I'm sure you look perfectly ravishing to any lady Mexican.  Who's Alf Porilo?"

      "Me!" I said.  "It's an anagram."

      "Good!"

      The more I got to know Lori, the more predictable she became.  One of her many endearing features was that she would studiously avoid saying the obvious.  Most people would naturally have enquired, "An anagram of what?" but not Lori.  She deliberately dropped the subject to see whether I would pick it up again, and for that very reason I didn't.  In many ways we were each as perverse as the other, which may explain why we bonded so well.

      We crept down to the lobby where I checked in.  Feeling like a hunted criminal, I was relieved to find a new receptionist on duty.  The sullen man I'd encountered at midday might well have recognised Alf Porilo, despite Lori's artistic efforts.

      "And how will you be paying for your room?" I was asked.

      "I'm settling both accounts," Lori intervened, handing over her American Express card.  I couldn't help noticing the card bore quite a different name - certainly not D'Amico, and my suspicions grew.  Was I being implicated in some fraudulent transaction that might land me in serious trouble?  I asked tactfully whether she had an extensive collection of assorted credit cards back home in Maryland.

      "I don't use my married name any more," she said, "except for this emergency account which my ex-husband is obliged to top up each month.  Today's little deception is all his name's good for, but it's still quite legal.  Stop worrying."

      Until now Lori had made no reference to her ex-husband, and I was intrigued to know why their marriage had broken up.  Had her husband been a heartless beast, a roving philanderer who treated her shamefully?  Or would Lori turn out to be an insufferably domineering woman?  A colleague back home claimed it always needed at least two to make a divorce, and on many occasions - three.

      Having regained a right to be in our crummy hotel, I fetched my cases in from Lori's Pontiac, and took them up to my room.  Lori had somehow arranged to get me a room adjacent to hers, and it offered an even better view of the Slagg heap.

      I still felt it was a remarkable coincidence that the one person I should chance to meet in the hotel on Sunday should be the one person whose boss wanted to make a bid for my factory.  It seemed an appropriate moment to tackle Lori on the subject.

      "John certainly knew you were coming," she admitted, "and he asked me to intercept you.  He told me to find out anything I could about the Slaggs' change of ownership.  But I assure you, I did not leave my door open as an invitation to prowlers.  I came straight in from the car, wet with rain, feeling hot and sticky, and decided to take a shower before anything else.  This happened to be at the very moment when you came trotting down the corridor looking for your view.  The open door was a pure oversight on my part - one might say a happy accident."

      "Happy for John, or happy for us?"

      "So, what shall we do from now till cleaning time?" she said, ignoring the question that perhaps I shouldn't have asked.  But I'm sure Lori wasn't offended by it - she simply enjoyed playing games.

      "Have we got enough polish?" I enquired, trying to be practical.

      "Good heavens, boy, cleaners don't use polish.  They empty bins, blow into the ashtrays, shift a few papers around and talk loudly in a foreign language.  That's all.  Anything different, and they'll know we're impostors."

      "Are these disguises really necessary?  My moustache is starting to itch, and I feel an utter idiot.  You realise it'll have to come off when we eat?"

      "You mean I was wrong to use super-glue?" she asked anxiously.   "Don't worry, Alf.  You're among friends!  John merely suggested we wander through the offices to see what we can find.  And that's best done when everyone's gone home."

      "I had no problem this morning," I pointed out.  "There was hardly a soul about.  Besides, it's my company, and I have a few plans of my own."

      "Feel like sharing them with a friend?"

      "Brian Smith gave me the name of a lawyer near here, the man called Greenwald who apparently shares confidences with your boss.  I'd like him to contact Slaggs and tell them there's a chap called Downing who's likely to come and inspect the place any day.  I want to hang around and see what kind of a reaction that stirs up."

      "I like it," she said.  "But shouldn't you wait till August?"

      "Lori, love, I can't.   I have a job in London, remember?  I'm only here till Saturday, or Sunday at the latest."

      "I think John's working to extend your time-table.  Tell me, which is more important, your old job back in England, or your company here and the work John wants you to do?"

      "Time will tell.  But I will say this - I'm enjoying this exercise more than any I've tackled so far in my career.  I'm even more convinced that I need to keep an eye on that place.  Incidentally the view from my window looks right into Armitage's office and the conference room."

      "I know," she said.  "All part of the D'Amico conspiracy."

      "I was watching them just now, and thinking what fun it would be to plant a microphone in there, and for us to sit here taking dictation."

      "Great idea!  And easy, too.  Let's pop along to Radio Shack and see what we can pick up.  It'll give you a chance to get used to your moustache in public.  I think John might sanction the cost of a few other gadgets too."

      We drove back to the mall where we bought a couple of wireless telephones and some binoculars.  We also bought two tiny tape recorders and a set of electronic devices that Lori  seemed to understand.  She explained on the way back.

      "It's called a Remote Control Command Console, and you plug it into any power outlet.  Then by using these other gadgets, you can switch on or off any device plugged into the same circuit.  I'm praying Slaggs draws its power from the same sub-station as our hotel; otherwise we just bought some guy in Baltimore an early Christmas present."

      "You seem to know a lot about spying, Lori.  Where are you from?"

      "America.  The truth is, my ex-husband was into gismos like this.  He cluttered our whole house with the silly things.  There were devices for switching on the garage light the minute he came home, and turning lights up and down all evening to make burglars think we'd gone nuts.  And this in a place that needed thousands spent before it was fit for habitation.  But we won't dwell on that.  The point is - he could also turn on the radio from the house next door, so I guess I must have learned something useful from the rat."

      "What was his name?" I asked.

      "Why?" she snapped.  "You plan on sending him a Valentine card?"

      I took one of the radio phones along to my room, and spoke through to Lori.  Then I plugged one of her gadgets onto my bedside lamp, and she switched it off and on several times with her command console.

      "So tell me, Señor Porilo, I plunge you into the darkness, si?"

      When I pointed out it was hardly dark at five in the afternoon, she gave a yell and insisted we get moving.

      "Office cleaners have to show up on time, Alf, or they louse up their reputation for being damned nuisances."

      We made our way into Slaggs like members of some secret underground resistance movement.  Several other cleaners were also arriving, and Lori chatted to one as we strode in through the gate.  No doubt the poor soul didn't understand a word, but it provided us with suitable cover.

      Once inside the main building, Lori and I went straight to the conference room.  It was lavishly carpeted, and decorated with dark oak panelling.  A massive oil painting of the late Arthur Ernest Slagg hung at the far end of the room, but the most dominant feature was an enormous walnut table, twenty feet long, with a dozen matching chairs on each side.

      "The table cost fifteen thousand dollars," Lori informed me.  "Can you believe that?"  It may have been someone's intention to give visitors an impression of opulent prosperity, but all I saw was gross extravagance.

      I looked for a suitable place to install one of the recorders, and chose a long low cocktail cabinet in the corner.  I set everything up, and concealed it behind a waste paper bin.  Lori tested it successfully, then went to the other building and left a similar device in Jonathan Quinn's office.

      I crept into the room where I'd sat for my farcical interview that morning, and hid one of the bugging phones beneath a pile of papers, confident that the disorganised Armitage would leave everything undisturbed.

      As I was coming downstairs I was spotted by a man in a security uniform, who asked: "You're new here?"

      "Dolqua el fengando amorro!" I replied with suitable gestures, hoping I'd said nothing offensive in any language he might have understood.

      "Okay, have a good evening!"  The guard continued on his rounds, no doubt pleased that he'd helped to promote international understanding.

      "Grantimora bella vista!" I muttered in reply, and went along to David Slagg's office.  Here I found a mass of computer printouts, but they all contained useless test data.  It sickened me that many thousands of dollars had been spent on a white elephant that still, after months of supposed development, had achieved little beyond a list of mouse dropping suppliers and dummy moon landings.

      I wandered in the direction of the computer room, and saw the familiar lad crouched in front of his terminal.  I moved to pick up his empty waste bin.

      "They did that two minutes ago," he grumbled, demonstrating that computer programmers worldwide become irritable whenever their concentration is disturbed.

      "Mungra del vorra don guana," I replied, gratified that my disguise had withstood its test.  Again I vowed to make this lad my ally, though preferably when he was in a more affable frame of mind.

      Back in the hallway I met Lori looking very pleased with herself.

      "Bellissima señorita," I said, in case the guard was nearby.

      "Tagga ragga bumbary," she replied, and beckoned me to follow.

      "Are you any good with locks?" she asked as we strode across the empty lot.

      "Lori!  What are you suggesting?" I exclaimed in dismay.  "Why don't we just phone for the police, give ourselves up, and ask for a double room in Alcatraz?"

      "Because it's been closed for years, that's why.  Listen, I've set the mousetrap in Quinn's office, but I need something out of his filing cabinet."

      "Isn't that a bit over the top?" I asked.  "I thought we were here just to lay bugs and observe?"

      "That's right, and there's something I'm anxious to observe inside Quinn's office."

      I followed her upstairs into Jonathan's needlessly spacious quarters, and Lori pointed to a sturdy cabinet.

      "He keeps his sales and profit forecasts in there.  I checked the desk but every drawer's locked."

      "Secretive blighter!" I whispered.  "Does he have a secretary?"

      "He has the creature whose legs you were admiring yesterday - Pixie Oliver, who evidently sits next door."

      "I wasn't admiring them, Lori.  I merely marvelled at her ability to make any kind of progress in such a tight skirt."

      "It's my guess," Lori retorted wisely, "that without that skirt, she wouldn't have made half the progress she already has."

      In the adjoining office we found a drawer containing paper clips, pens, and a solitary key.  This in turn opened another drawer in Pixie's desk where she kept more keys, including a set belonging to Jonathan Quinn.   Lori then rifled through the cabinet with all the skill of a professional burglar, and lifted out a file of papers.

      "I'll just get these photocopied," she said, and darted off down the corridor.  Meanwhile I thumbed idly through another drawer and found a letter relating to David Slagg, but before I had time to read it I heard the approaching footsteps of the security man.  He stood and watched as I rearranged Quinn's silver inkstand and blotter squarely on the desk.

      "No good wasting your time here," he advised, "Quinn's off this week."

      "Is clean, good?" I said in bad English and smiled again.  I wondered whether to move on, or to continue distracting him while Lori was still at the photocopier.  Smiling contentedly, I moved into Pixie's office.

      "She went with him also," the guard informed me.

      I picked up a photograph of Pixie and her boyfriend, and dusted it lovingly with my elbow, saying: "Bellasatica ferrari vaccicato!"  Then, desperate for more things to do, I got down on my hands and knees to look for dropped articles under the desk.  "Malaricca!" I exclaimed, picking up an imaginary paper clip and placing it carefully in the drawer.

      With the guard watching intently, I glanced at my watch and put it to my ear, grinning as I heard the ticking, and nodding as if to suggest it was time to go.  Finally he decided he too had better things to do and left, while I hastened towards the sound of the photocopier.

      "All done," Lori said softly.  "Your German sounded most impressive."

      I fell for it.  "It was meant to be Mexican!"

      "Never mind," she teased.  "You did your best.  I guess that was to stop him coming my way.  Thanks.  We make a damn good team, don't we?"

      Her eye caught mine for an instant, hinting that she might have added more if she dared.

      "Before you lock up," I said as she replaced the borrowed papers, "I spotted something here about David Slagg."

      Lori quickly seized the letter, nodding to herself as she read it.

      "A disappointing recruit!" she revealed.  "Been here two years, and a complete bungler by the looks of it."

      "Let me see," I asked, but Lori had already returned it to the cabinet and was locking up.

      "We really must move on," she insisted, "or we'll arouse even greater suspicion.  Cleaning staff rarely show signs of dedication."

      "Perhaps we need the overtime!" I said lamely.

      "Yes, and perhaps I need to get out of these clothes," she sighed.

      "Great!  What else are you planning to show me this evening?"

      "We've got plenty of reading," she said, sliding a bundle of papers into her bag.  "But we deserve a good dinner after this.  Fancy Mexican?"

      I'd had enough of Mexico for one day.  "Am I free to dress normally soon, or must I sleep in this ridiculous moustache?"

      "What you do in the privacy of your room, Richard, is of no concern to me.  However, if we can creep out of the hotel discreetly, we might allow ourselves a pleasant evening together."

      "That's more like it!  Somewhere quiet, where we can talk in English without feeling guilty as hell."

      "There's a Greek Restaurant you may find interesting," she said, "as long as you promise to behave yourself!"

      "Behave myself?" I tried to sound indignant.  "In all the time you've known me, Lori, have I ever misbehaved?"

      "Well now.  Let me think," she began, and fell into a long silence.

      We walked back past the guard, and waved a cheery goodbye.  I was tempted to call out to him in pseudo-Mexican, but Lori whispered: "Don't you dare!"

      In the privacy of my hotel bathroom, I washed off as much makeup as I could, carefully removing the moustache in case Lori had further plans for it.  Then I put on conventional clothes, and went along to knock on my friend's door.

      She hadn't even changed.  "You're not seriously going out like that?" I asked.  "I thought you were itching to climb out of that clobber?"

      Lori obliged by scratching herself in various places.

      "All right," she said, "if you're picky about whom you're seen with in America, give me ten minutes.  Here!  Read this lot while you're waiting."

      She thrust a bundle of papers at me, and with a furtive glance up and down the corridor added confidentially:

      "By the way, I hope you're not offended by the sight of girls wearing very short skirts?"

      "Huh?  What?" I stammered in total surprise.  "I mean, well no - that is, I am human."

      "Good.  Just checking.  Ten minutes, then."

      It seemed a long ten minutes.  While I waited for Lori, I laid out the papers on my bed and studied them with little enthusiasm.  There were sales forecasts given by tonnage and value, of interest more to a prospective buyer than to an owner trying to assess how many luxury yachts he could afford.   What I needed was an audited financial statement, but that would probably not be possible until August, by which time I'd be long gone.  Or would I?  Was it really vital to my career that I return home at the weekend?

      There came a gentle rap on my door and I opened it, full of eager anticipation as to what my companion might be wearing.  But there was no sign of those long slender legs I'd seen two days earlier.  In an attractive cotton dress, Lori looked so conventional that despite the stunning face I saw above it, I was almost disappointed.  Obviously the question of short skirts had either been forgotten or held some deeper significance I had yet to appreciate.  Lori was clearly expecting me to make some comment on the subject - and so, naturally, I didn't.

      She drove for about half an hour, travelling west into more rural parts of New Jersey, and finally we pulled up at a Greek Restaurant.  There was no valet parking here, and only a few cars were outside.  I took this as a sign that we'd come to a less popular retreat than Sunday's Italian restaurant.

      "Tuesdays are never as busy as the weekend," Lori explained, "but this place soon fills up, believe me.  It should hold plenty of appeal for a warm-blooded Peeping Tom like you."

      I was determined not to query this.  I simply agreed, and followed her into the dimly lit interior, where a mature gentleman in a long white toga welcomed us like celebrities and led us to a table.  Again Lori had booked in advance.

      "I guess you'd like to sit with your back to the wall?" she advised.  "Most men do."

      It sounded like a command, so I complied.  I remember chatting merrily away about what we might be doing the following morning, now that our eaves-dropping equipment was safely installed, when suddenly and quite involuntarily, I broke off in mid-sentence.

      "Welcome," said a voice like warm honey.  "I'm Chloe, your goddess for this evening."

      Standing beside Lori was an incredibly attractive waitress, no more than nineteen years old, with long blonde hair cascading over her left shoulder.  She wore an extremely short Grecian tunic, white with gold trimmings, its hemline level with our table-top.

      "Would you care for a cup of nectar or a cocktail?"

      I began by saying "Er ...", but my brain had slipped into neutral, and the tongue no longer seemed to be connected to anything I could readily control.

      Lori replied with crisp efficiency.  "I'll have a gin and tonic, please, with ice and lemon."

      "The same - please," I added vaguely, and our goddess took her leave.

      "You were saying?" prompted Lori, determined to appear unmoved.

      "Have I?"  My brain heard itself being summoned back for duty, but took its time in getting there.

      "Is anything the matter?" Lori asked kindly.  "You'd prefer we go some place else?"

      "No, no!" I said, trying to respond like an intelligent adult.  "This is fine!"  I cleared my throat, twice.  "Very ... pleasant environment."

      Lori nodded.  "Very popular, I'm told."

      "Really?" I said with raised eyebrows.  "Good!  Good."

      "Now you understand why you're sitting with your back to the wall."

      "Better view!" I nodded.

      "Safer," she preferred.  "I came here once with a male colleague who couldn't keep his roving fingers where they belonged.  I risked bringing you this evening, hoping you'll prove to be more of a gentleman."

      I promised I'd try very hard not to let her down.

      "Then enjoy yourself," she teased.  "I don't mind, as long as you're not planning to drive off with someone else and leave me stranded.  Anyway, you saw just as much of me when first we met - if not more," she added with a rare blush.

      Chloe returned with two tall glasses of gin and tonic, both chock full of ice.  This was another American habit which gave me a hard time; when you try to take a long drink, these miniature icebergs form a log-jam against your lips and effectively seal off the flow.

      Back again with cutlery, the goddess leaned across the table to lay my place, leaving nothing to the imagination of customers at neighbouring tables.  Nevertheless, as an English gentleman, I strove to be free of all primitive thoughts, especially in the presence of Miss D'Amico.

      Lori ordered a moussaka, and I tamely asked for the same.

      "You British," she commented, "you're so decisive."

      "Runs in the family," I said.  "Young David Slagg's just the same."

      "He's not family," she cried.  "Believe me, I know.  That letter wasn't at all complimentary."

      "I'll take your word for it.  For some reason, you weren't prepared to let me read it."

      "Correct.  What if the guard had seen you?  It was your idea to pretend you couldn't understand English.  No, if David had any family connection with the three wise men, Quinn would have toned down his comments - but he didn't.   David is on the payroll solely for his name - certainly not for any managerial skills."

      A tongue, a comb and a suit, someone once said - the three essentials for a rising young executive - though from what I'd seen on Monday, I wasn't impressed by David's tongue.  Somehow I had to extract the full facts from somewhere, and it was probably secreted in the vaults of the Personnel Department.

      "Let me offer you a fairy tale," said Lori.  "It'll help take your mind off other things.  There was once a young lad, anxious to work his way to the top in this rat-infested world, and he hit on the idea of joining a company that bore his own name - a family company, say, with no clear descendant waiting in the wings.  This lad was soon able to convince elder members of the family that it would be good for business to have a young relative listed among the vice-presidents, a symbol of regrowth and fresh thinking.  So he trots along and offers his services.  It's a classic ploy.  You hang around in a bar where you know you're likely to meet the boss; then you start talking high-finance and company policy to impress him, hoping he'll immediately take you on as his personal assistant.  Of course, the closer the crawler gets to the boss, the more easily the boss can spot a crawler.  But the evidence is all in that file.  Your extremely distant cousin David is merely a sponge."

      "More of a fairy cake," I quipped, distracted by the movements of another goddess who was about to lean across someone else's table.  I doubt if it was more than a few seconds before I turned to Lori, and added: "Perhaps we'll learn a bit more tomorrow?"

      "Good," she applauded tartly.  "Welcome back!  Thought we'd lost you for a minute.  Before Helen of Troy returns to melt your entire set of hormones to jelly, I need to ask whether you made any plans for Saturday?"

      Lori now had my full attention.  "Well, at least that sank in!"

      "I am sorry," I said, "but we don't have places like this at home."

      "And you don't want to miss a trick while you're here," she sighed.  "Never mind - perhaps you are still a tad too young for this scene.  Lori's fault for bringing you.  Now, watch my lips, Richard.  If we guarantee you a flight home on Sunday evening, where would you like to go this weekend?  Could be the opportunity of a life-time.   Want to see anything in particular?"

      I was about to offer a few daring suggestions, when the goddess walked swiftly past our table.  Despite my best intentions my eyes were compelled to wander again.

      "Look," Lori continued, with a hint of resentment.  "I could invite Helen of Troy to come and eat with you while I fetch and carry the food.  If they have spare uniforms I might even gain your undivided attention."

      I looked Lori squarely in the eyes and placed my hand firmly on hers.

      "Lori D'Amico, you are by far the most enchanting companion I have met in a very long time," I said in all sincerity.  "I know I'm being bloody rude, but some restless hormone keeps distracting my left eyeball to wander off towards a sight we rarely see in England.  I truly am sorry.  Forgive me?"

      "That's okay!  I've accepted it's Lori's fault for bringing you.  Just make sure you don't get so worked up you can't enjoy the meal you so thoughtfully selected."

      "This weekend," I assured her, "I'm entirely in the hands of whoever cares to take pity on me."

      "Then let me ask if one of these maidens can keep you amused."  Lori turned as if to summon a waitress.  "Of course, if none can be spared I guess I'll have to try and entertain you myself."

      "That would be perfect," I said, taking my hand away in case I was overdoing it.

      "Care to visit the Big Apple?" she asked.  "That's Yankee for Manhattan, in case I'm talking nonsense.  Or have you a yearning for the wide open spaces of Dutch Pennsylvania?"

      "What would you be doing this weekend if you weren't stuck with a weird Englishman?"

      "At this time of year, Vermont's very pleasant.  I've an aunt who has a place up there.  But here you are, a randy Brit with an eye for the girls, so Vermont wouldn't be safe.  What have you always longed to see in this part of the world?"

      I said I'd always wanted to visit Arizona.

      "Fine!" she said, looking at her watch.  "If we skip the rest of the meal and leave right now, we could be there by Sunday if we share the driving.  Then you could fly home from Phoenix."

      "You're saying it's too far for a weekend trip?"

      "Dear boy, would you recommend Jerusalem or the Pyramids to someone on vacation in Wales?  This is Big Country over here, sonny, bigger than your Salisbury Plain.  It's as far to California as it is from here to London."

      "Then here's a serious, honest answer.  Forget about Tomato Ketchup, Slagg Heaps and Mexican cleaners on Friday evening, and let me spend a restful day and a half with you, wherever you care to take me."

      "How restful?" she asked suspiciously.

      "Uncomplicated would be a better word."

      "Sounds good.  How do you spell it?"

      "Have you always been like this?"

      Only her eyes said: "Like what?"

      "Fascinating," I went on.  "Nimble-witted, astute, cunning, devious?  I'd like to get to know the real person behind that attractive but defensive façade.  Deep down, Lori, you're probably a very warm-hearted person, a delightful companion to take out cleaning."

      "Do I sense a BUT worming its way to the surface?"

      I promised I'd make a point of avoiding it.  "When I meet someone I like, it's natural that I'd want to get to know her really well.  Does that make sense?"

      "Of course.  I'd do the same.  Whom had you in mind?"

      "There you go again!  Oh, I like it, don't get me wrong, it's an essential part of your zesty personality to be a highly skilled tease.  But..."

      "I knew it - go on!"

      "But, Lori, I sense a protective shell beneath that bubbly exterior, and it's getting harder, the more I reach out for the soft centre it's trying to protect."

      Lori looked trapped, as though any witty retort on her part would prove my point.   So she said nothing.  She just sat looking wistful until, finally, she offered me a wise thought.

      "It's a naive girl who opens her door to every stranger."

      "And a hermit who lives in a secure shelter," I responded, "has but few friends."

      "A rash gambler he, whose cards face the other player," she offered, as if playing a shrewd game of chess.

      "When white man come in peace, hurl not poison arrow into back," I retaliated.

      "Beware of hostile cleaning-woman who empty sauce bottle down neck of man who make up silly sayings," she countered.

      It was like arm-wresting, only with words, until finally our composure collapsed.  Lori was about to place her hand over mine in a friendly gesture of truce when our food arrived.  I was absolutely determined, as the goddess attended to us, not to let my gaze deviate for an instant.  With our eyes locked in mortal defiance, a cute suppressed giggle spread onto Lori's face, and for the first time I heard the innocent laughter of a sensitive, vulnerable little girl.  Just for that one moment she seemed perfectly happy.  We were sharing the genuine joy of each other's company, instead of the defensive verbal parrying we'd practiced since Sunday.  And it felt so good, I wanted to sing.

      "Ever been up the Statue of Liberty?" she asked as we began eating.

      "No," I smiled with eager interest.  "Don't have one back home."

      "Claustrophobic," she said, shaking her head.  "How's the moussaka?"

      "Great!  How's the moussaka?"

      "Great!" she replied.  "I hope those hormones are ready to settle down, now they've got food coming in to join in?"

      As the evening wore on, I became increasingly conscious that my warm enjoyment of Lori's company was unlikely to remain platonic for long.  Yet it was vital not to make an error of judgment, nor any rash move that she might find offensive or indelicate.  Even at the risk of flying home in a state of love-sick melancholy, I had to make sure I kept the personal side of our relationship as distant as I could.  There could be no future in doing otherwise.  We both had jobs which ruled our lives, important worthwhile jobs on opposite sides of the Atlantic.

      From now on, I resolved to forget any thoughts of goodnight kisses down by the fireflies, or of intimate hand-holding during dinner.  It was regrettable but essential to the success of our mission that Lori and I should remain just good friends.

      Yet, despite this, as we stepped out of the hotel elevator on the fourth floor, we both hesitated as though reluctant to go our separate ways.

      "It's getting late," I said, somewhat artificially.

      "Especially for you.  Thanks, Richard - it's been a wonderful evening.  And now I suppose we'd better say goodnight, hadn't we?"

      "I suppose so.  Good night."  Then, after a pause, I added: "In that case, why are we both still standing here?"

      "Maybe we've got a lot on our minds.  I guess neither of us is brave enough to say what we're both thinking."

      I nodded.  "And are we both thinking what we're both thinking?"

      "I guarantee one of is," she replied softly.  "See you in the morning!"

      She kissed the tip of her finger, planted it firmly on my nose, and hurried down the corridor without glancing back.

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