“Call that number,” he said. “Now. At once. Get me Luc Martigny. Get the police.”

The Mercedes that Star had been driving was a very expensive car. It was a 540i. Gini glanced into its pale leather interior. It was presumably stolen; moving out of sight of any windows above, she noted its license plates.

For one moment, as the car had first pulled up and she watched the young man emerge from it, she had not realized it was Star. The man getting out of this vehicle had been wearing a black suit, a white shirt and tie; he did have long black hair, but it was drawn back from his face and tied at the nape of his neck. He resembled some young, successful executive from one of the less straitlaced professions: he could have been in advertising, or have been a record producer—something like that. Then, as he closed the car door, she saw him full-face and her doubts disappeared. Star—movie-star good looks, just as the travelers had described him.

Her hunch had been that if Star did visit Mathilde Duval regularly, he must—sooner or later—turn up. Well, she had been right, but the timing surprised her. Juliette de Nerval had told Roland that Madame Duval was to be collected by limousine at ten-thirty that morning, taken to the Cazarès show, and brought back. So why was he here now?

Mathilde Duval’s apartment—again according to Rowland—was on the top floor of this building. Gini glanced up at its ranked windows, then frowned at the Mercedes. To park the car so flagrantly in a restricted zone suggested Star did not intend to stay long. She felt alarm then: Madame Duval was elderly and infirm—and she lived alone. Gini hesitated, then ran up the portico steps.

Her way was barred by massive locked doors. Peering through their glass panes, she could see through into a large marble-floored lobby dominated by a magnificent bronze-colored cage elevator. The lobby and the elevator were identical to those in Helen’s building. As in Helen’s building, there was no sign of a concierge guarding the lobby, which was deserted and silent. Gini wondered if this building was occupied mainly by those rich enough to own several homes, and whether, as in Helen’s building, the majority of the apartments here were often left empty for months at a time. She pressed her face against the glass. She could see the cables and counterweights; the elevator itself was on another floor.

She looked at the battery of bells and intercoms set into the wall next to her. She pressed two of those bells, for the other two apartments on the tenth floor, and obtained no reply. She began trying bells on lower floors; with her sixth attempt she was lucky. A woman answered, sounding impatient. Using a strong American accent, and speaking in what she hoped was convincingly poor French, Gini explained rapidly that she was staying with friends here. They’d given her the key to their apartment, but not the passkey to the front door.