What happened then was horrible. He reeled back, his eyes opened wide with surprise, and his body began to dance as she kept firing, little jerking spasmodic movements, like a marionette. She waited for him to stop this terrible puppet dance, and come at her again. She pulled the trigger again, and nothing happened, just a series of little clicks, so she waited for him to stop dancing and grab her, and as she waited, she thought: I’ve failed, and now Pascal and I, we’re both dead.

She began to turn to Pascal, then Star made a retching, gargling noise. She stared at him. He jerked forward onto his knees and clutched at himself, as if something live, some animal, were inside him, moving around his body, in his stomach first, then his chest, then his throat. He fixed his eyes on her face and opened his mouth wide to say something, but the words seemed to clot in his throat.

She could see Pascal rising, feel him reach her side at last, and quietly take the gun from her hand. She thought he threw it down; but she couldn’t take her eyes from Star’s face. She waited for the words, watched his lips form them, then he vomited, and a great gush of blood spewed out of his mouth. He fell forward, facedown, arms outspread, and Gini continued to stare at him. She was waiting for him to get up.

Pascal was drawing her into his arms. It was dark, no light, the telephone was ringing, and she could hear the smash and crash of glass.

“Gini, don’t look,” Pascal was saying. “Just stand still. Let me hold you.”

“Did I kill him?” she said.

Several times over, Pascal thought, but he did not say this. He drew her to one side. The room was filled with shouts. He pressed her back against the wall, shielded her with his body, and let the aftermath take its course.

They put the power back on eventually. Gini looked back once as black-clad men hustled them out.

Dead Star was lying on a pile of smashed wood and china and glass, arms outflung, fists clenched. By his left hand was a small headless china figurine, and a crucifix; by his right was a torn photograph of Maria Cazarès. In the fight, various objects had fallen from his pockets: one was a packet of much-used tarot cards; another was the container with Star’s last three unused White Doves.

Chapter 21

ROWLAND STOOD WAITING IN the street. Brightness had begun to fade from the air; a thin rain had begun to fall. The incipient darkness was pooled with the artificial brilliance of arc lamps. He frowned into their rainbow dazzle, then, moving into the shadows by the police vans, took up his vantage point. From here, despite the crowds of reporters and police operatives, he had a clear view of Madame Duval’s building and its portico steps. He knew that Gini was safe, but he wanted to see with his own eyes that she was safe. That, he felt, was the next and necessary step.