Afterwards we settled in the 'bar', which was just the other end of the dining-room; a few tables, a short counter and a dark browndécor that might have driven you to drink but couldn't make you enjoy it. Kapotas and I got stuck into a bottle of Scotch while the Sergeant passed round a bunch of old photos. Each one showed him, younger and thinner but still neither young nor thin, wearing a wartime uniform and' standing proudly next to some general. Each a different general, but each a general; no brigadiers or colonels or suchlike.

We made impressed noises, then I asked Kapotas: 'How long d'you think we can keep it going like this?'

He shrugged. 'If London – or the bank here – would tell me I can spend some money, then I can look for new staff tomorrow. But myself, I am just a nightwatchman. And daywatchman. I check the inventories, the stocks, the books, make sure all the assets are insured – often they let the policies lapse as a last economy – and… Oh God! ' He looked at me, wide-eyed.

I said nothing. Just took out the Queen Air's insurance certificate and passed it over. He skimmed it, then relaxed. "Thank you.'

I began to pack a pipe. 'So the big decisions are taken in London?'

'Yes. A receiver acts as the agent of the debenture holder, whoever it was that lent the company money in the first place and now wants to move in and try to rescue some. Most of the time, like this, it's a bank.'

'Which d'you think they'll do?'

'Compromise – as usual. Get rid of the worst hotels individually, sell the rest as a unit. But to have time to decide, we have to keep everything running anyway. Or try.'

'Welcome to the hotel business.'

He smiled weakly and took a gulp of Scotch. 'I can always remind myself of other accountants doing the same thing in the Rhodes Castle, the Malta Castle, the Corsican one, Elba, Lebanon I suppose, if they everdo open…'

'Only they don't have me and the aeroplane to worry about as well?'

'Yes, exactly.' We drank on.

Around ten, the Sergeant said he fancied a couple of hours kip before coming back on duty at midnight – since there wasn't a night clerk.

Kapotas flapped the idea aside. Tonight we'll lock up as soon as the last guest is in. Not stay open. Have another drink.' The Scotch was turning him auld-lang-syne.

But Papa was horrified. 'We do our best business after midnight. When the bars and nightclubs begin to shut.'

'What?'

The Sergeant spread his hands. 'Of course. Here in Regina Street…'

'I get it,' I said. 'When the other places shut, their guests need some place to take the girls they've picked up there. And we're almost next door.'

Kapotas poured himself another drink, quickly but shakily. 'My God, Iam running a… But what about our proper guests?'

They are usually in before midnight. And we put our short-night guests-only on the first floor. Never above our residents.'

'What goes into the register?' Kapotas asked.

The Sergeant's big shoulders lifted a fraction. Nothing, obviously.

I asked: 'More to the point, what goes into the till?'

'The night clerk takes one-third; it is a tradition. Because, of course, he is to blame if the police raid us and find people whose names are not in the register.'

'And I imagine the manager's been taking the rest of it? Well, tonight do us a favour and give it to Castle International. And make the split after you've deducted for overheads, like clean sheets.'

'Not many of them care about clean sheets.'

'As from now, they'll get 'em and pay for ' em regardless. Service with style, remember.'

'Yes, sir.' He stiffened into a mocking but still professional salute, about-turned, and marched out.

Kapotas said soulfully: 'You are much better at managing a hotel than I am.' In a couple of drinks he'd discover I was his only real friend.

That's the nastiest thing anybody's said to me this week. But don't believe it; it's just that I've seen a lot more crummy hotels around the world than you have.'

'But this should bea de luxe hotel, the highest category – and he talks of police raids! '

I shrugged. 'If there'd been anhonest crook in charge here, it would've been like printing money. This place has got every-thing going for it.'

Kapotas shuddered. A while later, he asked: 'Didn't you say you only took on the flight to get to Cyprus – was it? '

'I wanted to meet a friend who's been in Israel.'

'Is he coming over here?'

'I hope so. I booked him a room here before I started the flight.' And I'd checked this evening and, surprise surprise, somebody had actually written it into the book.

'But you are not sure?' Kapotas persisted.

'Ill ring tomorrow. He can't get away until then anyhow.'

He opened his mouth to ask another question, then shovelled some Scotch in instead. I was glad the Sergeant had gone; his suspicious little mind wouldn't have stopped there.

Then the lobby phone rang. I remembered the Sergeant was in bed, decided Kapotas was too near a state of liquidation, and went out myself. Behind the desk was a small switchboard old enough to be steam-driven, and I almost lost the call finding the right plughole, but at last- This is the Castle Hotel, good evening.'

'I began to think you were closed.' Female voice with a faint German? – East European? accent.

'We almost are, but can I help? '

'Do you have a room booked for Mr Kenneth Caviti?'

I paused. I didn't need to look at the book about that one. But could I ask why she wanted to know? I decided not.

'Ah yes – there seems to be a Mr Caviti on the list.'

Thank God. I have asked at five other hotels. Now, please can you book me also two rooms, beginning tomorrow.'

'Well… we're in a bit of a mess here.'

'Full up?' She sounded incredulous.

'Anything but. The trouble is, most of our staff's scarpered and we can't really cope with the guests we've got already…'

'Never mind that.' She brushed the problem aside impatiently.

'So, two rooms please, and I want it also very secret,•verstanden! If somebody rings up aboutus, then you say we are not staying there.'

'Ummm… I suppose we might put you on the hourly rate and count you as five Swedish soldiers and friends.'

'Sitte?'

'Sorry. Just thinking aloud. Hold on.' Sergeant Papa had just arrived in his best imitation of a hurry, looking puzzled and buttoning his uniform trousers.

I put my hand over the receiver. 'A girl – German or something – wants two rooms from tomorrow and no names on the register. Any views?'

He blinked, frowned, scratched his gut and finally grunted: 'It might be possible – at a special rate. We can say it was just a mistake in all this confusion if the police find out. Butwe must know the names.'

'Sure. And see the passports.'

'Naturally.' He nodded approvingly.

The phone was squawking: 'Where are you? Hello? Hello? Ah, Scheisse! '

I said smoothly: 'Sorry, I've just been consulting the assistant manager. Yes, that will be quite all right; we can agree on the rate when you've chosen the rooms. But may I have the name, please? – just for us, not for the register.'

Pause. Then: 'Spohr.' She spelt it out. 'My father's name.'

Well, I'd believe what the passports said. I said: "Thank you, ma'am. Now, if you don't want to appear conspicuous, would you be wanting all your meals in the rooms?' Frightening how easily you become a bill-building little reservations clerk.

'Perhaps. But I want you to have waiting for us some good champagne – good – and caviar. We shall arrive before Mr Cavitt, soon after lunch. Wiedersehn.'

I wrote it all down as a note for Kapotas – or reminder for me – come the morning, then rang the operator and asked where the last call had come from. He footled around a bit, then told me Limassol, the main port down south.