Lori and I spent the next morning sitting behind net curtains in my hotel room, taking it in turns to watch through binoculars for any movement in the offices next door, and listening for sounds on our radio telephones.

      At first the vigil proved disappointing.  There was no sign of the accountant Dan Armitage, and there were no meetings in the conference room.  By mid-morning I was feeling frustrated and restless.  Not only had our carefully laid bugging devices been a dismal waste of money and effort, but it was already Wednesday.  My precious week was ebbing away.

      "Oh, this is futile!" I exclaimed bitterly.  "We're sitting here like a couple of train-spotters - half the day gone, nothing achieved, and I'm letting my sponsor down.  What we need is a dose of laxative - something to stir these guys into action.  How about phoning Greenwald?"

      "Sounds good to me," Lori agreed.  "What do you want him to do?"

      "Anything, so long as we don't hang around like lemons on a tree for the rest of the week, waiting for nothing to happen.  I want to know what Armitage is up to.  I want to make him jumpy."

      "You're a great one for mixed metaphors, " she said.  "You'd like to put an English cat among the American pigeons?"

      "Why not?  I came over here with visions of spending a week doing the very kind of job they're not prepared to give me till August.  Half of me wants to march in there right now and tell them who I am - but if those guys are crooks, I'd prefer to work under cover first.  As it is, I'm stuck here, all because their damned wages department can't get its act together."

      "Then forget Greenwald.  Make the call yourself.  Do it now while you're in a vengeful mood."

      It seemed a good idea, so I did.

      "Slaggs!" said the spiky receptionist, her bored greeting somehow suggesting a brothel.

      "Good morning, young lady," I began in a Scottish voice.  "Could I speak to Mr. Dan Armitage?"

      She offered no acknowledgement as I waited to be connected, but we could hear Dan's phone ringing on our intercom.  After a long delay, a girl was seen to enter his office and answer it.

      "Happy New Year!" I cried.  "Is that Mr. Armitage?"

      "I guess he's around someplace.  His jacket's on the chair!"

      "Good.  Then would you please ask if he's ... "  I stopped short, as we both saw her lay the receiver on the desk and leave the room.   I hung on for two minutes until we heard footsteps and another woman came hurrying into the office.  Prompted by an impish desire, I began speaking again before she reached the phone.

      "... so if you'd make sure to tell him that," I continued, "I'd be grateful, only as you'll appreciate from what I said a moment ago, this must remain strictly confidential.  Otherwise we could all be in serious trouble with the I.R.S."

      "Hallo?" barked the woman.  "Hallo, who is this?"

      "I just told you, he'll be arriving Friday to visit the site, so make sure everything's ready, you understand what I'm saying?  A foul-up at this stage could cost us all our jobs."

      "Who will?" asked the woman nervously.  "Who did you say's coming?"

      "This new president, some chap from England with his auditor, so we don't want any slip-ups, is that clear?  Call me if there's a problem."

      As I slammed the phone down, Lori turned up the intercom.

      "Where the hell's Armitage?" came the woman's tinny voice.  "Find him, and hurry."

      "He might be in the men's room," whined the girl.

      "So send a man in, only get Armitage to this office now."

      "One dose of laxative duly administered," I whispered as they both vanished.  I wasn't sure why we were whispering, but it seemed appropriate.

      For several minutes we saw and heard nothing.  Then Armitage appeared, with the agitated woman at his heels.

      "I don't know, Dan," she was saying.  "Cheryl took the call, but the stupid girl left him talking to himself while she came to get me.  All I heard him say was the new president and his auditor are coming here Friday."

      "You mean, this week?  What new president?"

      "He must mean Arthur Slagg's successor."

      "Successor?" spluttered the bewildered Armitage.  "Like he was king?"

      "The voice sounded kind of Scottish," she added.  "He said it was someone from England."

      "Well, no wonder!  That's how they work over there, haven't you heard?  One of them dies, and his next of kin can't wait to put on a crown and ermine and climb into the old man's shoes.  Well, this is America, thank God!  We're not standing for any of their Limey nonsense over here."

      "But if some English autocrat has inherited the Slagg family estate, we can't stop him coming to visit the place."

      "In this country, Arlene, we elect our presidents;  we don't let some foreign pompous jack-ass automatically inherit the title as soon as one of his relatives keels over."

      "So what's happening to the Slaggs' shareholding?"

      "How the hell should I know?" moaned the defensive accountant.  "I'm not their damned lawyer.  You were the old man's secretary, honey, not me.  If you don't know what's going on, I'm damn sure I don't."

      "Anyway, these people are coming the day after tomorrow, so if I were you, Dan, I'd stop flapping and get hold of Quinn."

      "He's off on another of his damned boondoggles.  God knows where we'll find him today.  Get Lanski and Fowler, and arrange a meeting for eleven in the conference room.  And I suppose you'd better include Driberg."

      "You want minutes taken?"

      "Hell no!" he shouted.  "That's the last thing we need.  We want ideas, honey, not an essay."

      "What about David Slagg?"

      Armitage gave a derisive snort.  "He's part of Quinn's circus parade, and so's that preening secretary creature, what's she called?  Didn't someone on the switchboard get this Scottish guy's name?"

      "I doubt it," she said.  "Cheryl hadn't a clue, and it wouldn't register with Maisie if we had a call from Donald Duck!"

      "If it had been the damned duck," murmured Armitage, "at least you'd have recognised the voice."

      We watched Armitage, alone in his office hunting through the mound of papers, occasionally finding a document of some interest and trying to write on it with his collection of inadequate pens.

      "I hope the intercom's well hidden," said Lori as we watched.  "He seems to be having a clearout."

      "If he gets too close to the mike, we can distract him with another call.  What an untidy devil!  Half his pens don't write, but they still go back into the pot with all the others."

      "And that's odd," remarked Lori.  "Dan was never like that when I knew him.  Never a hair out of place.  His office was immaculate, probably because he never did a stroke of work.  Did you meet Fowler yesterday?"

      "No, but I did get to meet Driberg, the tame elephant who believes in Management by Walking About."

      "That goes for most of them," Lori declared, "though not Lanski.  He believes in Management by Example.  Lanski claims he's the only one who knows how a job should be done, so he does it himself, time and time again.  He thinks he's training staff by performing tasks for them - but when he's finished showing them what to do, he's already done it.  And the next time, instead of delegating, he comes again and shows them while they stand and watch."

      "What do you know about Fowler?" I asked.

      "He came after I left, but I've heard tales.  They say he dresses so badly his tailor goes around wearing shades."

      Our attention was drawn to Sam Driberg who had just emerged from his office and was parading up and down, giving some kind of a speech to members of his staff.  I felt we should have installed more bugs, but Lori disagreed.

      "Waste of money!" she said.  "John's paying for information, not entertainment.  Driberg never has anything worthwhile to say, but he can spend an hour trying to say it.  That's not only an hour of his time, but everyone else's too.  Look at them all!  No-one can do any work while he's standing there, preaching his gospel of doom."

      Armitage's phone rang again, and Dan sprang to answer it as if expecting a call.  There was a long silence before he spoke, and he grew increasingly restless.

      "Yes, but we don't know ... we don't know, and the point is they're turning up on Friday.   We think so, but I don't know ...  Well, of course it's inconvenient, too right it's inconvenient, so was Pearl Harbour and nine-eleven, but that's when they're coming ...  No, apparently some British nutter seems to think God's now appointed him President."

      There followed another tantalising silence.

      "I don't know - I'll find out," Dan continued.  "As far as I know it's only test data.  Except for those sales figures they were keying in ... but you were the one who wanted it, Jon!  You knew my views!  I warned you!"

      Armitage was having to defend himself against a volley of accusations.  "If you insist.  Okay, you actually want it destroyed?  Okay, if you say so ... we're meeting at eleven, so I'll call again and fill you in on what's been decided.  All right, after lunch.  Goodbye!"

      Armitage put down the phone, and muttered something about having a nice day!

      "Quinn," said Lori.  "You saw him Monday morning.  Decisive, direct, and arrogant, but until the plane crash he was always deferential to the Big Three.  Now he's King of the Castle, and revelling in it.  If anyone's feeling jumpy right now, I'd say it's Jonathan Quinn."

      "Are we likely to see him back before Friday?"

      "Who's to say?  It's you who stirred the waters, not me.  Quinn's scheduled to be in Connecticut today, but he might reappear after the Albany road show tomorrow.  If they wrap up there before lunch, he could arrive by four.  We'll see what develops.  How about some coffee?"

      "Sure," I agreed.  We hadn't had a break since breakfast, so Lori phoned room service and ordered coffee with bagels, while I relaxed in the armchair with my eyes half-closed.

      "Tired?" she whispered kindly.

      "No, just concentrating," I responded, deep in thought.  "Lori, tell me something.  Are there any staff in that outfit whom you'd describe as being reasonably efficient, say to the standard of your average American employee?"

      She assumed a similar pose in the other armchair, and murmured for me to continue.

      "Oh, I had this feeling yesterday that every member of staff there is either dull-witted or undisciplined.  That can't be normal for this part of the world, surely, so why here?  I mean, if you wanted an efficient P.R.O., would you recruit Pixie Oliver?  The Head of Finance doesn't seem to know a balance sheet from a turnip, the receptionist is as charming as a concrete mixer, and Driberg's department has the hallmarks of a travelling circus.  The guy responsible for computer development claims it'll take a decade to get a system up and running, and the security staff are content to allow on site any Tom, Dick or Harry who feels like an afternoon stroll.  I mean - who in that place shows even the slightest degree of initiative, enthusiasm, enterprise, dedication, ability, expertise ... need I go on?"

      "Not if you've run out of abstract nouns.  And no, I can't think of anyone we'd be eager to retain if Argyle took control.  As to why that should be ... I can only say that when I was there I tried to show - what was on that list again?  Initiative, dedication, enthusiasm and all those other noble attributes.  But I felt I was alone, rowing hard against the tide in the wrong direction."

      "So, what if there is something shady going on, Lori?  Something that any bright young spark might be in danger of detecting?  That would encourage a policy of offering jobs only to third-rate thick-heads."

      She grinned.  "Yes, they readily took you on board."

      "I'm serious, Lori.  If your company were doing anything unorthodox or illegal, the last person you'd want on your staff is some clever little tick who'd start asking awkward questions, and maybe do it loudly.  We know they're in blatant violation of U.S. hygiene laws.  And another thing - one of the guys I met on Monday morning mentioned absurd invoices.   As an auditor, that set me thinking.  Suppose I had a private deal with some customer to under-charge him in return for a personal back-hander?  Or maybe I'm paying a supplier's back pocket for fictitious purchases?  It could be a lucrative racket while it lasted.  Or suppose company finances are being falsified for tax purposes?  Who are the fat cats?  What are they getting away with?"

      "Good questions," she agreed.  "If they're running a duplicate set of accounts, they'll need an army of clerks to do it manually."

      "But not an army of self-motivated thinkers, the very sort of employee who seems to be missing."

      "Except for a few fat cats, who are meeting at eleven o'clock."

      We simultaneously looked at our watches, and Lori expressed concern about our coffee.

      "It would be prudent, I suggest, when it does arrive, that we're not seen spying on our friends across the yard."

      "Okay!" I countered.  "What else could we be doing?"   A cheeky remark, which Lori wisely chose to ignore.

      "This little girl needs your bathroom," she announced suddenly, and disappeared to attend to her needs.  

      A waiter arrived with our coffee, and lingered for a tip.  The moment he'd gone, I dived for the binoculars and trained them on the conference room in time to see Dan Armitage standing at the window.   He looked outside for a moment, almost as if sensing that a pair of beady eyes might be watching him.  Then he drew the blinds, totally blocking our view.

      I looked around for Lori, who had reappeared behind me and was activating the remote tape recorder.

      "Hopefully he won't have heard that start up," she said.  "I did it while he was fixing the drapes.  Besides, if they discover it, there's nothing to link it with us."

      "I suppose that means we've got to go in again tonight and retrieve the cassette?  I hope this is all worth it, Lori, because I'm getting in a lot deeper than I bargained for.  It's getting scary."

      "You won't get in too deep while I'm here," she replied.  "Let's have our coffee, and bagels."

      We relaxed for a moment, drinking the coffee which was good, and chewing the bagels which I found disappointing.  They tasted more like stale bread rolls, and my jaw ached before I'd finished the first one.

      As Lori chatted away, I found myself wondering if she would ever feel sufficiently at ease to tell me more about herself - her childhood dreams, some of the more exciting episodes in her life, and her sadder moments too, one of which she'd already touched on.  But she was confining all her comments to Slaggs and their activities, as if working hours weren't appropriate for a more personal exchange.

      I listened, not so much to her words as to her voice, fascinated by the way her nose would occasionally wrinkle and her eyebrows move up and down.   If she had paused and asked for my views, I couldn't have given a sensible reply; I hadn't a clue what she'd been saying.  Yet I didn't want her to stop talking - it was sheer delight to sit and watch her animated face.   Already I knew I'd miss it greatly when I returned to England.

      I began to wonder whether I had a realistic choice about the future ownership of Slaggs.  Did I want to turn up there on Friday to a loud triumphal fanfare, and presume to take over the reins of the entire company?    It would give me a valid reason for staying in America, whereas if I were to sell out to John Flannery, what were the chances of my ever seeing Lori again?  Would she even want to carry on our friendship, once this charade was over?  Or was she already entertaining thoughts similar to mine, and keeping them well hidden behind a mask of professionalism?

      Suddenly I was aware she'd stopped talking and was looking my way, enquiringly.  Had she just asked a vital question while I'd been day-dreaming?

      "I guess you're not fascinated by bagels," she said.

      "Sorry, no, they're not wildly exciting.  I was more fascinated by what you were saying."

      "You weren't even listening!" she challenged me.

      "I assure you I was.  Have you ever known me to lie?  But I will admit that perhaps I wasn't concentrating, and for that I apologise."

      "You were thinking about something else?  Not short skirts again?"

      "I was thinking about what I'll be doing when this exercise is over."

      "Think you'll miss the excitement?"

      "There's a lot here I'll miss," I said.

      "Me too," she agreed quietly.  "Come on, Downing, back to work!"

      We continued our surveillance and saw Sam Driberg in the lower office, still addressing his flock.  Dan Armitage was nowhere to be seen, and the blinds in the conference room remained closed.  If the vital meeting was still on, why was Driberg not with them?

      Nothing of interest happened for the next hour, and we began to think about lunch.  Rather than leave our posts, we consulted the Room Service menu, and I was just phoning for a couple of burgers, when Lori suddenly beckoned me to the window.  Dan Armitage was back in his office, about to make a phone call, so we switched on the intercom and listened.

      "Hi, could I speak to Mr. Quinn, please?"  Dan was pacing to and fro like a tethered goat.  "Jonathan?  Listen, we put our heads together and agreed a plan.  I don't think we'll hit any problems."

      We waited while the voice of the vice-president had its say.

      "Yes, that's been taken care of," Dan continued.  "I've given the task to Driberg.  No, of course he doesn't ... tonight, I guess.  I'll check with him again if you're worried ...  Okay, I'll personally see that they're all removed."   He sounded irritable.  "When are you returning to base?  All right, yes, we'll still be here - can't you make it seven?  All right, in your office.  I'll tell the others ... well, just Fowler and Lanski then."

      As Dan Armitage finally put down the phone, he sat with his head on the desk, and for a moment I almost felt sorry for him.

      "See what you've done?" Lori scolded me with a wry frown.  "You just ruined his day."

      "So Quinn's driving back tonight.  The pigeons are flapping like crazy, Lori, even though the nice pussy was only being playful."

      "Meeoow," she said, and gently stroked my hair.  This really set my pulses racing, yet I was determined to concentrate on our project.

      "Isn't he due in Albany tomorrow?" I asked, as the stroking ended.

      "He can still make it," she said, "if he leaves here by five a.m."

      "Poor man!  Now I really do feel rotten."

      "You're not an early riser yourself, Richard?"

      "I'm an owl, not a lark," I replied.  "I'm at my best after midnight."

      "I'll bear that in mind.  Now, concentrate!  News of your impending arrival has been received with enough solemnity to get Quinn driving two hundred miles south to discuss it.  Also, certain information, probably in the computer, is so damning that it has to be destroyed, and that's serious.  It's time for a joint decision, Richard.  May I have a quick word with my boss?"

      "Am I allowed to eavesdrop?"

      "We're in this together, aren't we?"

      Lori went to the phone and lay full length on my bed, a vision guaranteed to play havoc with my hormones.   I returned my gaze to the less tempting scene outside, but though my eyes were on the factory, my ears were keenly attuned to Lori's voice.  In speaking to John, she sounded totally relaxed, evidence of a deep and personal friendship.   With commendable efficiency, she brought him rapidly up to date.

      "The main point is, John, we strongly suspect underhand practices.  Armitage has been ordered to destroy something...  Exactly as you predicted.  I hope we'll get more details tonight after our visit."

      Silence ensued while Lori listened to her boss's advice, which I hoped she'd share with me.

      "Okay," she concluded, "we will.  You too.  Yes, of course we're being careful.  I'll keep in touch.  I'll let you know where we are.  Yes, he is.  Yes, I will, have no fear."

      She put down the receiver, and I turned to face her glowing smile.

      "John's delighted with what we've done so far and insists you should be given Friday off to see some of our neighbouring states before you fly home.  Does that sound good?  It means you won't get to escape from my side for a few more days, but I guess you can handle that?"

      "I'll certainly give it my best shot," I grinned.  If I didn't fall head over heels in love with Lori D'Amico before the weekend, there had to be something seriously wrong with my metabolism.  Was our sexual chemistry affecting her too, or would I end up making a complete ass of myself?  I hoped to God she wasn't telepathic.

      "You look troubled, " she said, "what's up?"

      "What's troubling me," I said, "is whether everything we've done so far is strictly legal."

      "Forget it.  Slaggs is undoubtedly your property, Richard.  If you suspect someone of trying to embezzle you, wouldn't you take steps to investigate?"

      "Yes, but I'm in this hotel under a made-up name," I pointed out.  "I don't think your great Uncle Sam would approve."

      "Then go downstairs and tell everyone you're Winston Churchill," she said.  "The room's paid for, and that's all the F.B.I. will worry about."

      As she mentioned F.B.I., there was a sudden thump on the door, but it was merely the arrival of lunch.  Lori signed the check, and we both adjourned to the table.

      "I suppose my real worry," I continued as we munched through our bland burgers, "is that I feel unsettled.  After all, I am in a foreign country."

      "No, you're not," Lori argued.  "This isn't a foreign country, this is America.  You're the one who's foreign.   You can't blame me for that!"

      "All the same, I'm still suffering from culture shock, though I admit it eased off once I met you in the flesh."

      "Yes," she reflected quietly.  "Normally I don't strip down to the pink for my friends until I've known them at least ten working days.  You got the full show right at the outset.  I must be more conservative next time."

      "Lori, I'm serious.  You're the only close friend I have in this half of the globe."

      "We both know that," she nodded.  "Come on, eat up your dinner like a good boy, then you can tell me all about it over coffee."

      "You think John Flannery really wants to acquire that awful place?" I asked, eight mouthfuls later.

      "Mmm," she replied, four mouthfuls after that.  "I know he does."

      "The place - but not necessarily the people?"

      "Certainly not the bad people."

      "And our job is to find out who the baddies are," I said, realising how far ahead of me John had been when he enlisted my co-operation.

      "Good boy!" said Lori as though I were her year-old son.

      "Eat up your greens and I'll tell you a story!"   This silly spontaneous quote from my early childhood was quite automatic, but it set me wondering what Lori had been like as a mother, whether she'd felt good in that role which was sadly so brief.   Eerily she seemed able to read my thoughts.

      "How old were you when your mother died?" she asked, a warm caring softness in her voice.

      "Seventeen," I said quietly.

      She looked at me with sincere tenderness.  "Tough time, I guess?  Is your father still alive?"

      "No, he died long before that.  I had a temporary step-father, but I haven't heard a peep from him since he remarried.  You say your parents are both living?"

      "Oh, sure," she replied with a lively smile.  "Dad's retired now.   They've gone back to live in the area where I was brought up."

      "Little Gap," I remembered.

      "Oh, you are a good boy!" she repeated.  Then she looked most contrite.  "Sorry, Richard, I'm treating you abominably.  Please forgive me.  It's my defences ... they're up pretty high at the moment."

      I met her embarrassed gaze with a solemn nod.   "Better that way, huh?"

      "For the moment," she agreed.  "We have work to do, and it'll keep us out of mischief.   I hope you slept well last night?   Hey, it's gone awful quiet over at the Fun Farm.  Guess they're all at lunch.  

      "Do you suppose any of them eat over here?" I asked.

      "Doubt it.  Employees generally figure out which places are best to avoid, and the word soon spreads.  Were you thinking we might go downstairs and fraternise?"

      "We're keeping a low profile, remember?  Mustn't be seen without our moustaches."

      "You're right," she sighed.  "Oh, I'll be glad when this job's over, won't you?"   Then she added quickly: "What I mean is that I'll be glad when we can stop staring at that ugly place across the parking lot which hopefully you'll sell to John.   Think what you could do with all that money, Richard.  You could settle down, raise a family, own a ranch.  You could have anything you wanted."

      "Is that a proposal?" I dared to ask.

      "But not yet," she went on, "because today our benefactor, yours and mine, would like us to watch this exciting drama unfold before our eyes."

      Exciting?  It proved a most uneventful afternoon.  It was good to be in one another's company, sure, but there were better ways we could have spent the day if we hadn't both been so stubborn about hiding our feelings.  In three dreary hours we saw and heard nothing new.  Sam Driberg became more and more restless, and appeared to leave early.

      "He likes to get in a round of golf before going back to his dull wife," Lori explained.

      "Poor man," I sympathised, "I felt sorry for him, the moment I met him."

      "I know," she said.  "Everyone does.  That's why he's so popular."

      "But not popular enough to attend tonight's special meeting.  I wonder if he'll come back later to eavesdrop?"  I chuckled, picturing the elephantine rear as it stooped to put an ear to the keyhole.

      "You accuse him of having no scruples?  No, Sam's not like us - he's far too nice a guy to get mixed up in anything like spying!"

      At five o'clock we disguised ourselves, and I was again embalmed in Lori's attentiveness as she skilfully restored my Mexican looks.  Half an hour later we were at the door of the conference room.   Keeping watch, Lori began polishing the brass knobs outside while I darted in to retrieve the tape, replacing it with another in the hope of further revelations.

      What I failed to notice was a second inner door to the conference room, which suddenly burst open.  Still crouched over the recorder, I found myself staring at the polished shoes of Dan Armitage.

      "What's going on?" he barked.

      "Della questa monte fiore!" I explained, but it was pointless.  I held the incriminating cassette in my hand.

      "What have you got there?"

      "Bella musica!" I nodded stupidly, getting up and edging towards the outer door.

      "Not so fast!  Who are you?" he continued with the same penetrating stare I'd seen at my interview.  Panic was about to seize me when, by some miracle, I heard Dan's name announced over a loudspeaker.

      "Calling Mr. Armitage, Mr. Dan Armitage for an international call!" said a nasal whine.

      "That damned Englishman!" Dan muttered to himself, and picked up a nearby phone.  I darted away with the agility of a squirrel, and met a guilty-looking Lori at the foot of the stairs.

      "It's time we were out of here," she hissed.  "Come on!"

      "Too right," I panted.  "Armitage was on to me, but by some fluke he had an urgent phone call."

      "I know," she grinned as we headed for the parking lot.  "Mind you, I don't think there actually is one, but it'll take him a minute or two to find that out.  I used to work the switchboard, back in the old days.  Still remember a few tricks."

      We hurried out through the main gate, and were soon back in the safety of our hotel.  At least, I felt safe, forgetting that from his office Armitage had a perfect view of the hotel entrance.

      In our separate rooms we changed into normal clothes.  Lori was at my door as soon as she was ready, eager to go for a drive.

      "What's the rush?" I asked.  "Do we need to buy anything else?"

      "No, but there's a tape player in the car.  I want to hear what kind of music we've just downloaded."

      I was about to lock my door when the phone rang, and I went back to answer it.

      "Hold it!" Lori cautioned me.  "Who knows your number?"

      "No idea," I replied.  "Perhaps it's John."

      "Phoning your room?  I doubt it," she said.  "Answer it, but remember you're from Mexico."

      I picked up the phone, and said "Si?"

      "Who's that?"  

      I recognised the voice at once.   "Si?  No comprendo!" I replied.

      Immediately the line went dead.  Lori grabbed the receiver and dialled the front desk.  "Sorry - was there a call just now for Señor Porilo?"

      "Yes," said the clerk.  "Some guy asking about a gentleman who came in a moment ago.  Says he dropped his wallet."

      As Lori repeated the word, I took out my wallet and waved it in front of her.

      "You gave him Señor Porilo's name?"

      "Sure.  I figured if the guy's lost something, he'll want it back.  He's lucky it was found by someone honest enough to hand it in."

      "Okay, thanks!"  Lori put down the phone and looked at me seriously.  "Your cover's blown, amigo!  Armitage must have spotted us running back to the hotel, and hotels aren't the sort of places cleaners normally visit when they finish work, so I guess that's the end of Alf Porilo.  An anagram, you said?"

      I glanced out of the window and saw Dan still in his office, looking searchingly towards the hotel.  Seeing the intercom receiver in Lori's hand, I had another impish desire.

      "He thinks he had an international call, right?  Let's give him one."

      Lori sat back in amusement while I dialled Slaggs and asked for Mr. Armitage.

      "Dan Armitage!" said the familiar voice.  I nodded to Lori.

      "I say," I began in my best Oxford accent, "is that Slaggs of New Jersey?  Jolly good, I say, look here, I'm having a frightful job getting through to you chaps.  Am I speaking to one of the directors at long last?"

      "I'm Armitage, Head of Finance."

      "Ah, splendid.  I guess you'll do.  I say look, there's been a bit of a mix-up.  My man rang earlier and spoke to one of your girls about our visit."

      "Yes, who is this?"

      "Well, frightfully sorry and all that, but there's been an almighty cock-up at our end.  Can't make it this weekend, I'm afraid.  My auditor has had to fly back to Paris, so we'd best postpone our visit till some time next week.  We hope to fly over on Concorde, Monday or maybe Tuesday, so we'll be with you - say, ten o'clock on Wednesday at the latest, is that okay?"

      "Well, yes," he hesitated.  "Could I have your name again please?"

      "Sorry, I thought you knew.  I'm Richard Downing."

      "Downing!  Well, we certainly look forward to meeting you, Mr. Downing."

      As I put down the phone Lori looked at me in astonishment.  "I love the accent, but why have you done that?"

      "To keep them on their toes," I said.  "Make them even more jumpy.  Things are beginning to smell bad, but I feel it's premature to turn up the day after tomorrow;  yet if I don't turn up, they might get the idea it's all a hoax.  I want to keep the pressure on because that's when mistakes are made, so if ..."

      Lori was about to switch off the intercom when I laid a firm grip on her arm.  "Hang on, something's up."

      Armitage was reaching for his phone.

      "Lanski," we heard him say, "there's trouble - I need you.  Meet me at the gate in two minutes, and hurry.  We've just had a nasty little visitor, followed by a strange phone call - I don't like the sound of things."

      I turned to Lori.  "Now I don't like the sound of things either."

      "Not at all," she agreed.  "Pack your bags, quick as you can, and meet me on the far side of the hotel, down by the fireflies.  I'll go settle up our account, and join you in a couple of minutes.  It's you they're gunning for, Richard, so hurry."

      Lori took the key to my room, and disappeared.  Did she really mean gunning?  America seemed to be living up to the worst kind of reputation I'd seen in old movies.  With live crooks heading my way, maybe armed with lethal violin cases, I had no intention of stopping to take souvenir photographs.

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Except where specifically noted, all music and stories on this web site are my own creations.   You may not use any of them for any purpose without written permission from me.     Copyright © 2003 Colin Johnson     All Rights Reserved.