Good,' he said, and put a piece of paper into my hand. 'Here's the address.'
He was waiting for me outside 249 East 35th Street that evening, where Stevens held open the door for us to go in.
The wine was excellent. Waterhouse did not introduce me to any of the others, but two or three introduced themselves to me. One was Emlyn McCarron, then in his early seventies. He held out a hand and I took it for a moment. His skin was dry and hard, and he asked me if I played cards. I said that I did not.
'Good,' he said. 'Cards have done more to kill after-dinner conversation than anything I can think of.' And he walked away into a corner of the library, where shelves of books went high up into the darkness above.
Waterhouse had disappeared, so I walked across to the fire- place, feeling a little uncomfortable as I sometimes do amongst strangers. The fireplace was big enough to cook a cow - whole. Cut into the stone above it were some words: IT IS THE TALE, NOT HE WHO TELLS IT.
'Here you are, David,' Waterhouse said from behind me, and I jumped. He gave me a glass. 'A Martini, yes?'
'Yes. Thank you, Mr Waterhouse.'
'George,' he said. 'Here it's just George.'
'George, then,' I said, although it seemed a little mad to be
using his first name. 'What is all of-?'
'Cheers!' he said.
We drank.
'Perfect,' I said, instead of finishing my question.
'Stevens looks after the bar. He makes excellent Martinis.' 'Should I sign a guest book?' I asked.
He looked surprised. 'We don't have anything like that,' he said. 'Or I don't think we do.'
I saw Stevens walk past in a doorway at the far end of the 4