“What in God’s name does he think he’s doing?” Rowland burst out. Martigny gripped Rowland’s arm. The psychologist shook his head.

“I wouldn’t have recommended that room. Or any mention of the mother.”

“Or cameras.” Rowland rose. “Cameras least of all. He loves cameras. He loves publicity—you saw that. He’s perfectly capable of killing Gini on camera. It’s the worst thing Lamartine could possibly do. Call Star again. Call him now. You have to stop this.”

Both Martigny and the psychologist looked at the clock. Five minutes had passed.

Martigny began flicking switches, speaking into a microphone; the tapes clicked, began to whirr.

In Madame Duval’s apartment the telephone began ringing. All three men adjusted their headphones and listened. In the apartment, no one picked up.

“Let it ring,” Star said. “Let it ring, and get on with it. Hurry up…”

Pascal was reading him, trying to read the room. On entering it, as he had anticipated, Star’s unease had immediately increased. Watching him, Pascal had the impression that Star was still watching some private movie, and that it was unspooling before his gaze very fast. The faster the movie, the slower his reaction speed seemed to be. He was now backed up against the wall Pascal had indicated, his body framed by pictures of Maria Cazarès. He was clutching Gini in front of him, the gun wedged against her neck. The lighting in here was even dimmer than in the sitting room beyond. Pascal raised one of his cameras and looked through the viewfinder. He focused on Star’s curious eyes. He could not rush this; he had to wait for Star’s eyes to adjust to this poor lighting, for the pupils to dilate.

Fixed to this camera was a device he rarely used, known as a ring flash. When fired, it produced an intense burst of blinding light. Fired straight into the eyes at close range, that light might gain him fifteen, twenty, thirty seconds of advantage—which might or might not be enough. It was certainly not enough while Gini remained in this position with a gun to the neck.

He lowered the camera. Star’s eyes were now fixed on the huge pink bed behind Pascal. Pascal sighed. In a calm, regretful voice, he said: “It’s no good like that. Gini’s too tall. I’m not getting your face…”

“Fuck you. How about like this?”

With one quick violent movement he shoved Gini down on her knees, holding the gun to the side of her head.

“No”—Pascal met his eyes—“I won’t take that picture. And no one would print it if I did.”

“Fuck you both. I—what was that?”

Star had begun to shiver. His eyes swiveled around the room. Gini gave a low moan of fear. Pascal, who had also heard the noise—a slithering sound—gave Star a blank look.

“What? I can’t hear anything….

“You can—there!” Star’s face became rigid. “Something’s moving. I can hear something—stirring. It’s over there—by the bed.”

Pascal knew perfectly well that the sound was above them, and came, almost certainly, from the roof. He half raised the camera, took a step forward. Star was pressed against the wall now, his face distorted with fear. He was beginning to make a low choking sound in his throat. Pascal felt time freeze, then speed up. He thought: one more sound and he’ll start firing.