And that very morning, just as his brain was getting into gear and sketching out the murky events leading up to the puzzling deaths of seven important members of the most exclusive club in town, the telephone beside his elbow started to ring. 'Who's speaking?' 'Don Lotario?' 'Yes, Manuel, it's me. What d'you want?' 'Would you be able to meet me later today on the terrace of the San Fernando? Does 12.30 suit you?' 'Why,is something up?' 'Yes.' "What?" "I've had a letter . . . from Madrid."