It was only now that he noticed the brightly lit hotel, which had previously escaped his attention. He felt as if the ground were slipping from under his feet. A dull flicker of rebellion stirred inside him and died down immediately. Before he knew what was happening they were already in front of the receptionist’s desk. Gurdweill signed the register mechanically: Rudolf Gurdweill, born on such and such a date, in such and such a town, and his wife …

With an expression of total indifference on his tired, sleepy face, the bellboy led them up the shabbily carpeted stairs and showed them into a square, sparsely furnished room on the second floor.

‘If you need anything, just ring here.’ He pointed to an ivory button next to the door, and pocketed the tip that Gurdweill offered him.