“Is it?”

“Of course.” She looked away. “Women are more monogamous than men. So they find ways of excusing their men when they stray. Being told they’re somehow in a different category, believing they’re in a different category, a more permanent, a more serious category—that’s one of women’s protective mechanisms. I’ve seen it often enough.” She hesitated, and a reticence Rowland was beginning to realize was very characteristic of her masked her face.

“Anyway”—she took a sip of her brandy—“I’m sure of one thing.”

“Anneke was not writing to Star care of Chantal? I agree. I also thought that.”

“In which case—we’re back to the beginning again. We have a clutch of false surnames, a first name that may or may not be genuine. We know Star has a gun, which makes things worse. But we don’t know why he wanted the gun and we still have no idea where he is.”

“No. We know more than that. We know something interesting, and curious too…” Rowland fell silent as the owner of the restaurant returned and began to ply them with food: freshly baked bread, salads, pommes frites, and two omelettes the man said were made with wild mushrooms, and his own hens’ freshly laid eggs.

Rowland smiled at this very French perfectionism; he waited until the proprietor left them, then leaned forward. As if trying to appear hungry, Gini began to eat.

“We know more than we thought,” Rowland went on. “This was staring us in the face yesterday. Think. Maria Cazarès died yesterday afternoon, at the apartment of her retired maid. Right?”

“The apartment in the Faubourg St. Germain area, sure. We discussed that. I know the district. I even know the street…”

“You do?”

“Yes.” She hesitated. “Pascal Lamartine’s ex-wife lives on that street now. It’s her new husband’s apartment. I went there twice, last year, to pick up Pascal’s daughter, Marianne. It’s a very fashionable neighborhood.”

She looked away, then continued to eat. She had set herself a test, Rowland thought, to see whether she could mention Lamartine’s name without any show of emotion—and she had almost succeeded, though not quite. Better not to inquire, he thought, better to let it pass, although he noted the fact that while Lamartine’s ex-wife had remarried, Lamartine had not.

“We also know,” he went on, “that it was close to that apartment, yesterday afternoon, that there was a sighting of Mina Landis and Star.”

“Yes. At about two P.M. We also discussed that.”

“But what we didn’t discuss was whether that was coincidence—or something more. At that point, we got—distracted, as I remember.”

“Rowland—”

“Very well. But we did.” He looked at her seriously. “In fact, the maid’s name wasn’t mentioned on those TV news bulletins. It was mentioned in the newspapers this morning, however. Her name is Mathilde Duval. Does that help? Now do you begin to see?”

“Oh my God.” She dropped her fork with a little clatter, and stared at him. “Anneke’s address book. Those seven girls’ names I wrote out. There was a Mathilde.”