The Names

Charles Maitland sat alone in the dark hush of the bar at the Grande Bretagne, a midafternoon lull. He looked up when he saw me enter. A smile broke across his face, some kind of tigerish gleam in his eye."You wily bastard, James. Sit, sit.”"What are you drinking? I want something long and cool.”"Long and cool, is it? What a crafty piece of work.”"What are you talking about?”The bartender wasn't at the bar. I heard him talking to a waiter in a back room somewhere."I always thought George Rowser was a fool. I'm the bloody fool, aren't I?”"Why are you a fool, Charlie?”"Come on, come on.”"I don't know what you're getting at.”"You don't know, you don't know. In a pig's eye, Axton. You bastard, I never even suspected. I never imagined. You were damned good. I don't mind telling you I'm impressed, even a bit envious, you know. It's been a year, has it, since we've been making the rounds together? And you never slipped. You never gave me reason to wonder.”The waiter came out. Charles ordered me a drink and then simply looked at me, examining as if in retrospect, wondering what he might have missed that could have given him a clue. A clue to what? I pressed him to explain."I appreciate your stance," he said. "It's the only professional stance. But the cha