On board the yacht, No. 1 put down his night glasses, took a Charvet handkerchief out of the breast pocket of his white shark-skin jacket and dabbed gently at his forehead and temples. The musky scent of Schiaparelli’s Snuff was reassuring, reminding him of the easy side of life, of Dominetta who would now be sitting down to dinner — everyone kept Spanish hours in Nassau and cocktails would not have finished before ten — with the raffish but rather gay Saumurs and their equally frivolous guests; of the early game that would already be under way at the Casino; of the calypsos thudding into the night from the bars and night-clubs on Bay Street. He put the handkerchief back in his pocket. But this also was good — this wonderful operation! Like clockwork! He glanced at his watch. Just ten fift
