What We Become by Arturo Pérez-Reverte Page B

“Sort it out now.”
    They remain silent while a group of guests walks past. The receptionist glances around the lobby: there is no one on the stairs leading up to the rooms, or at the glass door to the conservatory, where they can hear the murmur of conversation; and the concierge is busy at his post, placing keys in pigeonholes.
    â€œI thought you had retired,” says Spadaro, lowering his voice.
    â€œI have. I told you so the other day. I just want a break, like in the old days. Champagne on ice and some nice views.”
    Spadaro looks at him suspiciously again, after a second glance at the suitcase and his elegant clothes. Through the window, the receptionist glimpses the Rolls-Royce parked at the top of the steps leading down to the hotel entrance.
    â€œThings must be going very well for you now in Sorrento. . . .”
    â€œSplendidly, as you can see.”
    â€œJust like that?”
    â€œPrecisely. Just like that.”
    â€œAnd your boss, the one at Villa Oriana?”
    â€œI’ll tell you about him some other time.”
    Spadaro rubs his bald head again, weighing the situation. His years in the job have given him a bloodhound’s sense of smell. This is not the first time Max has placed an envelope on the counter in front of him. The last was ten years ago, when Spadaro still worked at the Hotel Vesuvio in Naples. A priceless moretto brooch from Nardi’s that belonged to an aging screen actress called Silvia ­Massari—a regular guest there—went missing from her room, which (courtesy of Spadaro) adjoined Max’s. The disappearance took place while she was having lunch with Max out on the hotel terrace with its spectacular vista, after the two of them had spent the previous night and most of that morning engaging in autumnal yet vigorous intimacies. During the regrettable incident, Max only left the terrace and his companion’s tender gaze for a few moments to wash his hands. Consequently, it did not occur to Miss Massari to question the integrity of his conduct, his splendid smile, and other tokens of affection. In the end, the affair was resolved with the interrogation and dismissal of a chambermaid, although there was no evidence against her. The actress’s insurance dealt with the matter, and as Max was settling his account and handing out tips with the air of a perfect gentleman, Tiziano Spadaro received an envelope similar to the one before him now, only thicker.
    â€œI didn’t know you were interested in chess.”
    â€œReally?” The old professional smile, broad and dazzling, the one he most favors from among his old repertoire. “Well, I was always something of an enthusiast. An intriguing atmosphere. A unique opportunity to see two great players . . . Better than football.”
    â€œWhat are you plotting, Max?”
    Max holds Spadaro’s inquisitive gaze, unflustered.
    â€œNothing that will jeopardize your approaching retirement. I promise. And I have never broken a promise to you.”
    A long, brooding pause. A deep wrinkle appears between Spadaro’s eyebrows.
    â€œThat’s true,” he admits finally.
    â€œI am glad you remember that.”
    Spadaro looks down at his waistcoat buttons and runs his hand over them pensively as though brushing off imaginary specks of dust.
    â€œThe police will see your registration card.”
    â€œSo what? . . . I was always clean in Italy. Besides, this doesn’t involve the police.”
    â€œLook. You’re getting on a bit for some things . . . we all are. You shouldn’t forget that.”
    Without responding, impassive, Max continues to look at the receptionist, who is contemplating the envelope, still lying unopened on the polished wood.
    â€œHow many days?”
    â€œI don’t know.” Max shrugs. “A week will be sufficient, I think.”
    â€œYou think?”
    â€œIt’ll be enough.”
    The