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the mind of the man who owned it, an elderly man in a double-breasted blue blazer that looked as if it had been made by the same London tailor as Robin’s, with a face like a Komodo dragon lizard. He stood and came to shake my hand as his nephew made the introduction, and when he licked the lips of his thin, broad, drooping pink mouth, I would not have been surprised to have seen a tongue that was forked.
    â€œWhere have you been, Robin? We’ve delayed dinner for you, and you know I hate that. It’s most inconsiderate to Annette.”
    â€œI dropped into the Voile for a drink and met a friend of mine. Walter Wolf. He’s German and he’s a keen bridge player and he was at a loose end so I thought I’d better bring him along.”
    â€œIs he indeed? I’m so glad.” Maugham placed a monocle in his eye, looked directly at me, and smiled a rictus smile. “Wed-don’t see n-nearly enough G-Germans. It’s a good sign that you’re returning to the Riviera. It augurs well for the future that Germans can afford to come here again.”
    â€œI’m afraid you’ve got me wrong, sir. I’m not here for the season. I work at the Grand Hôtel. I’m the concierge.”
    â€œYou’re very welcome all the same. So, you play bridge. The most entertaining game that the art of man has devised, is it not?”
    â€œYes, sir. I certainly think so.”
    â€œRobin, you’d better tell Annette that we have an extra guest for dinner.”
    â€œThere’s always plenty of food, Uncle.”
    â€œThat’s not the point.”
    â€œI thought we could make a four with Alan, later.”
    â€œExcellent,” said Maugham.
    While Robin went to speak to the cook, Maugham himself took me by the arm and into the dark green Baroque drawing room, where a butler wearing a white linen jacket materialized as if from thin air and proceeded to make me a gimlet to my exact instructions and then a martini for the old man, with a dash of absinthe.
    â€œI dislike a man who’s not precise about what he wants to drink,” said Maugham. “You can’t rely on a fellow who’s vague about his favorite tipple. If he’s not precise about something he’s going to drink then it’s clear he’s not going to be precise about anything.”
    We sat down and Maugham offered me a cigarette from thebox on the table. I shook my head and lit one of my own, which drew yet more of his approval, only now he spoke German—albeit with a slight stammer, the way he spoke English—probably just to show that he could do it, but given it was probably a while since he’d done it, I was still impressed.
    â€œI also like a man who prefers to smoke his own cigarettes rather than mine. Smoking is something you have to take seriously. It’s not a matter for experiment. I myself could no more smoke another brand of cigarette than I could take up marathon running. Tell me, Herr Wolf, do you like being the concierge at the Grand Hôtel?”
    â€œLike?” I grinned. “That’s a luxury I simply can’t afford, Herr Maugham. It’s a job, that’s all. After the war, jobs in Germany weren’t so easy to come by. The hours are regular and the hotel’s a nice place. But the only reason I’m doing it is for the money. The day they stop paying me is the day I check out.”
    â€œI agree. I have no time for a man who says he’s not interested in money. It means he has no self-respect. I myself only write for money these days. Certainly not for the pleasure of it.” A tear appeared in his eye. “No, that went out of it a long time ago. Mostly I write because I’ve always done it. Because I can’t think what the hell else to do. Unfortunately, I have never been able to persuade myself that anything else mattered. I’m eighty-two years old, Herr Wolf. Writing has become a habit, a discipline, and, to