Both A. R. Woresley and Yasmin looked up at me with eyes popping.

“Where did you get this notepaper?” Woresley said.

“I had it printed.”

“Did you write this yourself?”

“I did and I’m rather proud of it. It’s a very fair imitation of the King’s handwriting. And the signature is almost perfect. I practiced it for days.”

“You’ll be had up for forgery! You’ll be sent to prison!”

“No, I won’t,” I said. “Alfonso won’t dare tell a soul. Don’t you see the beauty of it? Our great and noble King is hinting that he is having a backstairs affair with Yasmin. That, my dear sir, is very confidential and dangerous material. And don’t forget, European royalty is the most tightly knit and exclusive club in the world. They work together. Every ruddy one of them is related to the other in some crazy way. They’re tangled up like spaghetti. No—there is not the slightest chance of Alfonso letting the King of England down. He’ll see Yasmin at once. He’ll be dying to see her. He’ll want to take a good look at this woman who is the secret mistress of old George Five. Remember also that right now our King is the most respected of all the royals. He’s just won the war.”

“Cornelius,” A. R. Woresley said, “you frighten me to death. You’ll have us all behind bars.”

“I think it’s terrific,” Yasmin said. “It’s brilliant. It’s bound to work.”

“What if a secretary opens the envelope?” Woresley said.

“That won’t happen,” I said. I took a bunch of envelopes from the drawer and found the right one and gave it to Woresley. It was a long high-quality white envelope with the red royal coat of arms top left, and BUCKINGHAM PALACE top right. In the King’s handwriting, I had written on it:

“That should do it,” I said. “The envelope will be delivered to the Oriente Palace in Madrid by my own hand.”

A. R. Woresley opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again.

“I have a roughly similar letter for each of the other nine kings,” I said. “Obviously there are small changes. Each message is tailored to the individual. Haakon of Norway, for instance, is married to King George’s sister Maud—I’ll bet you didn’t know that—and so there we finish up with ‘Give my love to Maud, but I trust you absolutely to make no mention to her of this private little piece of business.’ And so on and so on. It’s foolproof, my dear Arthur.” I was calling him by his first name now.

“You appear to have done your homework, Cornelius.” He himself, in the manner of all dons and schoolmasters, refused to use my given name. “But how do you propose to get in to see all the others, the non-kings?”

“There will be no problem,” I said. “Not many men will refuse to see a girl like Yasmin when she knocks on the door. You certainly didn’t. I’ll bet you began dribbling with excitement as soon as she came into the lab.”

That shut him up.

“So can we do the King of Spain first?” Yasmin asked. “He’s only thirty-three and from his photograph he’s rather dishy.”

“Very well,” I said. “Madrid first stop. But then we must move into France. Renoir and Monet are top priority. One’s seventy-eight and the other seventy-nine. I want to nobble them both before it’s too late.”

“With Blister Beetle it’ll be heart attack time for those old boys,” Yasmin said.

“We’ll reduce the dose,” I said.

“Now see here, Cornelius,” A. R. Woresley said. “I won’t be a party to the murder of Mr. Renoir or Mr. Monet. I don’t want blood on my hands.”

“You’ll have a lot of valuable sperm on your hands and that’s all,” I said. “Leave it to us.”

THE STAGE WAS SET. Yasmin and I packed our bags and left for Madrid. We had with us the vital liquid nitrogen suitcase, the smaller case containing glycerol, etc., a supply of Prestat’s best chocolate truffles, and four ounces of Blister Beetle powder. I must again mention that in those days the examination of luggage by customs was virtually nonexistent. There would be no trouble with our curious suitcases. We crossed the Channel and travelled to Madrid via Paris by wagon-lits. The whole trip took only nineteen hours. In Madrid, we registered at the Ritz, where we had booked separate rooms by telegram, one for Oswald Cornelius Esquire and one for Lady Victoria Nottingham, using the name and title I had recently conferred on Yasmin.

The next morning I went to the Oriente Palace where I was stopped at the gates by a couple of soldiers on guard duty. Waving my envelope and shouting, “This is for the King!” in Spanish, I reached the big main entrance. I pulled the bell knob. A flunkey opened one of the doors. I then spoke a Spanish sentence that I had committed to memory, which said, “This is for His Majesty King Alfonso from King George of Great Britain. It is most urgent.” I walked away.

Back at the hotel, I settled down with a book in Yasmin’s room to await developments.

“What if he’s out of town?” she said.

“He isn’t,” I said. “The flag was flying over the palace.”

“What if he doesn’t answer?”

“He’ll answer. He wouldn’t dare not to, after reading that letter on that notepaper.”

“But can he read English?”

“All kings can read English,” I said. “It’s a part of their education. Alfonso speaks perfect English.”

Just before lunchtime, there was a knock on the door. Yasmin opened it and there stood the manager of the hotel himself with a look of importance on his face. He had a silver tray in his hand on which lay a white envelope. “An urgent message, my lady,” he said, bowing. Yasmin took the envelope, thanked him, and closed the door.

“Rip it open!” I said.

She ripped it open and took out a letter handwritten on magnificent palace notepaper.

“Simple, isn’t it?” I said.

“What does he mean we?”

“All monarchs refer to themselves as we. You have three hours to get ready and be at the palace gates,” I said. “Let’s fix the chocolate.”

I had obtained from Prestat a number of very small and elegant boxes, each holding no more than six truffles. Yasmin was to give one box to the King as a small present. She was to say to him, “I have brought you, sire, a little present of chocolates. They’re delicious. George has them specially made for me.” She was then to open the box and say with a most disarming smile, “Do you mind if I steal one? I simply can’t resist them.” She pops one into her mouth, then she picks up the marked chocolate and holds it out to the King delicately between forefinger and thumb, saying, “Try one.” The poor man will be charmed. He will eat the choc just as A. R. Woresley did in the lab. And that will be that. Thereafter, Yasmin will simply have to carry on nine minutes of flirtatious small talk without getting entangled in any complicated reason for her visit.

I got out the Blister Beetle powder and we prepared the fatal truffle. “No double doses this time,” Yasmin said. “I don’t want to have to use the hatpin.” I agreed. She herself marked the truffle with small scratches on the surface of the chocolate.

It was June and very hot in Madrid. Yasmin dressed with great care but wore the lightest possible clothes. I gave her a rubbery thing from my large stock and she put it in her purse.

“For God’s sake don’t fail to get it on him,” I said. “That’s what it’s all about. And hurry back here with it quickly afterwards. Come straight to my room next door.” I wished her good luck and off she went.