Swallow showed his warrant card.

‘We’re not for dining, son, I’m afraid. Detective Inspector Swallow and Detective Officer Vizzard. We’d like to see Mr Werner please.’

The young man rose from the desk.

‘I’ll tell him yiz are here. Yiz can take a seat.’

Swallow and Vizzard stayed standing as the young man went into the dining room. A minute later he was back.

‘Mr Werner said to tell yiz he has someone wit’ him and yiz are to wait. He won’t be long.’

He resumed his place at the desk. Swallow watched him laboriously copying out menu cards for the evening dinner. But there was no sign of Stefan Werner. After a couple of minutes, Swallow called to the waiter at the desk.

‘Will you go and see if Mr Werner is ready? It’s police business and we haven’t got all day.’

The young man looked embarrassed.

‘I can’t do that, sir. He said he wasn’t to be disturbed.’

Swallow knew instantly. He would have twigged it earlier, he later reflected, were he not so tired from his travels and emotionally astray. He snapped at Vizzard. ‘Get around the back, quick. You might just get him in the laneway.’

Swallow sprinted across the lobby into the dining room, along the short corridor and down to the office where he had previously interviewed Werner. He flung the door open. The room was empty. He spun on his heel. A man in a chef’s uniform emerged from the kitchen door opposite.

‘Police,’ Swallow told him. ‘Where’s Werner?’

‘Mr Werner? Sure, he’s just gone,’ the man answered, a puzzled look on his face. ‘He went out the back way.’

Swallow pushed past him into the lobby and onto the street. South Great George’s street was busy. He scanned the pavements. There was no sign of Stefan Werner.

Across the street, a steam tram bound for Rathmines was pulling away from its stop outside Pim’s department store. On instinct he sprinted across the street, stretching his speed to its limits as the vehicle gathered momentum. Its next stop would be at Aungier Street, beyond the intersection with Stephen Street. His wind would not bring him that far in time to catch it, he knew.

Then the double-decked vehicle jerked to a halt with a hiss of steam and a squeal of its metal brakes. Pedestrians turned to see what was happening. From where he stood, Swallow could see that a messenger delivering groceries or packages of some kind had tumbled from his bicycle, momentarily bringing the traffic to a halt. He started to run again. He jumped as the vehicle moved off and grabbed the rail above the open platform at the back.

Stefan Werner was sitting on the side bench in the lower saloon, his coat wrapped tightly around him, a black bowler hat jammed forwards in an effort to conceal his face.