A voice at my elbow said, “Cocktail, sir? Old-Fashioneds and dry Martinis.”

“Old-Fashioned,” I said, hardly noticing the neat figure in black and white who spoke.

“Okay, but there’s more bitters in them than whiskey.”

I started and looked around. From under a frilly cap, the face of Amy Race was peering at me impishly. “I’m sticking to straight whisky myself,” she said. “That’s the trend below stairs.”

In spite of myself, I burst out laughing.

Across the room, alone at a table, sat Ariel Banks’s secretary Clark-Watson. A waiter was trying to explain something, then the clipped, high-pitched British voice said distinctly, “Dash it, I am simple asking for a pink gin.”

“But he don’t know how to make it,” said the waiter.

“That is scarcely my fault,” said Clark-Watson.

Amy chuckled and said to me, “I think I’ll get into this act.” She got up and strolled to Clark-Watson’s table. I could hear her saying, “I’m Amy Race of the Eagle. Perhaps I could be of assistance?”

“Can you tell this chap how to make a pink gin?”

“What’s your poison?”

“Have you a whiskey?”

“I have next to everything, old man. You wouldn’t fancy a dry Martini?”

I would have preferred a whisky, but he seemed anxious to show off the riches of his store, so, “If it’s very dry,” I said.

“Ten to one, old man.”

He unlocked the cupboard and drew out a leather traveling-case – a half-bottle of gin, a half-bottle of vermouth, four metal beakers, a shaker. It was an elegant expensive set, and he laid it reverently on the tumbled table as though he were an auctioneer showing a prized antique. I couldn’t help commenting on it.

“Asprey’s ?” I asked.

“As good as,” he replied quickly and began to mix the cocktails.

“Did he go steal jewels in New York?”

“I rather think he’s in Paris,’ Mr. Pyke corrected him calmly, selecting a toothpick in his turn.

A second bottle of the island’s wine, which Jojo had brought without being asked, was more than half empty. The patron came over to suggest:

“A little marc? After the garlic mayonnaise, it’s essential.”

It was balmy, almost cool in the room, while a heavy sun, humming with flies, beat down on the square.

Colonel Carbury said unemotionally, “He don’t like murder! Quite right! No more do I!” He rose and poured himself out a stiff whiskey and soda; his guests’ glasses were still full. “And now,” he said, returning to the subject, “let’s get down to brass tacks.”

“What are you drinking? Lunch is on me.”

“Why?”

“I’m going to get paid.”

“That you are.” I had brought a blank check. “Dry Rob Roy,” I said to the waiter. The menus were already on the table.

“Congratulations,” Arnie said.

“For what?”

“I believe you got married.”

“Oh. Thanks.” Miranda wouldn’t have told him. She was as cozy with information as Cosa Nostra. “How do you know?” I said.

“How do I know? Heck, there was a spread in every newspaper.”

“Yes, there was, wasn’t there?” My drink arrived and I drank it, quickly.

And so we went home to our bridal suite and there she said, “Martinis. And I’m making.” She opened the liquor cabinet. “Excellent ingredients here. And a jar of olives and a jar of pearl onions, but I don’t like either. No lemons.”

“I though you weren’t special for Martinis?”

“Except on special occasions. Do you think we ought to call down for lemons?”

I didn’t quite relish the idea of calling to Room Service from the bridal suite in the middle of the night for a couple of lemons.

“I’ll go down and get them,” I said, and when I returned, after my curious excursion to the kitchens below, there was a tall shaker with frosty Martinis sitting and waiting.

“Coffee?” he said to his wife. The tall silver urn was doing small business. The big business was at the Champagne coolers.

“Wine,” she said.

“Had you better?”

“Taittinger 1921,” she said. “You bet I had better.” She smiled at me with large white teeth. “Which means I have never had better. Taittinger ’21. The best.”

We drank Champagne, ate, chatted, and ate and chatted and drank.

Sturgeon and Champagne. Ah, the sweet life.