On the far side of the square, rather plain room, at the corner table by the caisse, the plimp fair-haired girl with the dramatic mouth said to the jovial good-living man with the thick rope of spaghetti joining his face to his plate, “He was a rather cruel smile. But he is very handsome. Spies aren’t usually so good-looking. Are you sure you are right, mein Taubbchen?”

The man’s teeth cut through the rope. He wiped his mouth on a napkin already streaked with tomato sauce, belched sonorously, and said, “Santos is never wrong about these things. He has a nose for spies. That is why I chose him as the permanent tail for that bastard Kristatos And who else but a spy would think about spending the evening with the pig? But we will make sure.” The man took out of his pocket one of those cheap tin snappers that are sometimes given out, with paper hats and whistles, on carnival nights. It gave one sharp click. The maître d’hôtel, on the far side of the room, stopped whatever he was doing and hurried over.

“Si, padrone.”

The man beckoned. The maître d’hôtel leaned over and received the whispered instructions. He nodded briefly walked over to a door near the kitchens marked UFFICIO and went in and closed the door behind him.

Phase bt phase, in a series of minute moves, an exorcise that had long been perfected was then smoothly put into effect. The man near the caisse munched his spaghetti and critically observed each step in the operation as if it were a fast game of chess.

-Risico