Louis cursed and ran at Zoltan but he stopped suddenly and fell back with a gasp. Tree-Trunk had hurled his harpoon into him with such force that half its length protruded from the Frenchman’s back. Louis struggled for a few moments on the deck, then lay still.

‘I did not want any bloodshed today,’ said Zoltan. ‘But you have forced my hand.’ Goodenough hauled himself groggily to his feet and glared at Zoltan. ‘You are a barbarous pig, sir. A common pirate.’

Zoltan passed the statuette to the tattooed giant and grabbed Goodenough by his shirt. ‘Do not make me angry,’ he hissed.

Goodenough looked into his eyes; the pale irises seemed to have darkened. ‘Take what you want,’ Goodenough pleaded, ‘but can you not leave the Donatello? It means a great deal to me.’

Zoltan pushed Goodenough away and took the bronze back from Tree-Trunk.

‘No,’ he said simply.

Despite himself, Goodenough grabbed him.

‘You will not take that! I don’t care what you do; you can prise it from my dead hands if you wish, but I won’t give it up without a fight.’

He took hold of the statuette and grappled with it, pressed right up against Zoltan, who was backed against a bulkhead. They struggled for half a minute before a muffled bang suddenly erupted and there was the smell of singed flesh and cloth. Goodenough staggered backwards, clutching his stomach.

‘You’ve shot me,’ he said and dropped to his knees.

‘That is very perceptive of you, Sir Goodenough. I told you not to make me angry.’

‘I’ll see you rot in hell for this.’

‘I doubt it very much. In a few minutes you will be dead. Good day to you.’

So saying, Zoltan the Magyar leapt overboard into the waiting cutter. In a moment he was joined by his oarsmen and they raced back to the steamer. Once there, he climbed over the side and stood on deck, studying the statuette and breathing heavily through his nose. Despite some minor complications it had been a good morning’s work. He ran a finger over the shapely curves of the siren’s body and smiled. In many ways it had been too easy.

As he turned to go below he suddenly felt a searing pain in his left shoulder and he dropped the bronze to the deck. He spun round and saw a short-haired girl of about fourteen wearing a bathing costume, water dripping from her thin body, a mixture of anger and fear showing on her young face.

Zoltan looked down at his tunic. It was stained dark with his own blood. He put his right hand up to where a cold, dull ache drilled into his shoulder. A knife was stuck fast there; jammed into the joint. Half of him felt like weeping and the other half felt like laughing. This girl had spirit. If he had not turned at the last moment, the knife would have stabbed him next to his spine.

His left arm hung uselessly at his side; the pain and loss of blood were making him weak.