She looked down at the folder, which was thick, heavy, and unlabeled.

“Is this a fashion story?”

“No. Only indirectly. It’s bigger—and nastier—than that.”

“Are you going to explain?”

“I can’t explain fully, no. Not yet.”

“It’s confidential?”

“You could call it that.”

Lindsay opened the file. A familiar face stared up at her, a famous face. The photograph, one of the very few in existence that had been posed, not snatched, had been taken by Cecil Beaton. It dated from the seventies, and once seen was not easily forgotten. Maria Cazarès was captured at the height of her beauty. Black-haired, black-eyed, she was laughing, her hand half lifted, as if about to shield her face. Her hair was cropped; she looked, as Beaton had famously said, like the most beautiful boy in the world; she wore a small gold crucifix around her neck.

Lindsay frowned, and began to flick through the file. It was composed of press clippings; all concerned Cazarès and Lazare. They spanned almost three decades. The file was four inches thick.

“I want you to read through it,” McGuire said. “Everything my researchers could find is in there. The American clippings, the British, the Italian, the French. Could you do it this weekend?”

“It’s that urgent?”

“Yes. It is. I thought…I thought you might fit it in at Max’s. After dinner, maybe. In bed…”

He gave her another greenish glance. To her surprise, Lindsay realized that McGuire had other talents she would not have suspected; when it suited his purposes, he could flirt.

“It might help,” she said, “if I knew what I was looking for.”

“Gaps.”

“There’ll be hundreds of gaps. You mentioned a few of the obvious ones yourself, earlier. This whole file will be supposition. Rumor and counter-rumor. Legend. Myth.”

“Never mind. Anything you know, or have heard, no matter how unlikely, how unsubstantiated—if it isn’t in that file, I want to know about it.”

“Even gossip?”

“Especially gossip.”

“Report back Monday?”

“Er—yes.” He glanced away. “Before you leave for Paris? If you have time, if you’ll let me, I’ll buy you a thank-you lunch.”

“Maybe.”

McGuire looked injured. “Haven’t we made peace?”

“No. Not yet.” Lindsay met his gaze. “I still think you’re manipulative. Devious. I don’t trust you an inch.”

“But you will help me?”

“You’re marginally more bearable when you ask favors. So—yes.”

Lindsay rose, and turned to the door. McGuire, in a surge of gallantry, also rose and opened it for her. In the doorway he asked one final question. Had Jean Lazare any known connection with Amsterdam?

“No. Why would he?” Lindsay asked, puzzled. “Whatever nationality he really is, it isn’t Dutch. And Holland hardly features on the international fashion circuit.”

“No,” said Rowland, whose telephone was ringing. “No. I thought that…”

He picked up the telephone; Lindsay lingered in the doorway. She could just hear a female voice from the receiver, speaking rapidly. Rowland frowned.

“I’ll see you Monday, then, Rowland…”

“Monday?” He gave her a blank look.