“You can’t just off someone because it’s more convenient,” I said. “What did all your friends die for, all those names on the wall, what did they die for if not for that?”

He recoiled. “I don’t know what they died for,” he said. “I didn’t know then and I still don’t know now.”

“Well, I do,” I said. “Even if you’ve forgotten. They died because they thought there was a better way of doing things, even if they were still arguing about what it was.”

I saw it in his eyes—he wanted so badly to believe.

“It’s nothing that we can’t handle,” I said. “Are you really telling me that among you, me, and Dr. Walid we can’t work something out? Maybe I can find a way to feed them pocket calculators and mobile phones. Maybe if we can fix them, we can fix the others. Wouldn’t that be better than just dropping a phosphorous grenade on them—really? Besides, Molly might like the company.”

“You want to keep them in the Folly?”

“Initially,” I said. “Until we can figure out how far they can be trusted. Once we’ve got them stabilized we could set up a halfway house. Preferably somewhere where there’s no jazz scene.”

“This is mad,” said Nightingale.

“And they could take Toby for walks,” I said.

“Oh, well in that case, why don’t we throw our doors open to all and sundry,” he said, and I knew I had him.

“I don’t know, sir,” I said. “Wouldn’t a pilot project be more sensible in the first instance?”

“We still don’t know where they’ve gone,” he said.

“I know where they’ve gone.”

WE MOVED the Transit van to Great Windmill Street, parked next to the McDonald’s, and left the private army inside while we went to check out the staff entrance to the Café de Paris. “Why don’t we send Frank home?” I asked.

“We may need him if that bastard black magician turns up again,” he said.

“Are you saying you can’t take him?”

“Fortune favors the prepared,” said Nightingale.

The entrance door was ajar, which not only meant that Simone was probably inside but also that we had reasonable cause to enter the premises without a search warrant under section 17 of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act (1984). There was broken glass in the kitchen. They’d evidently helped themselves to a midnight snack. The door to the champagne cooler had been left open and the hum of its compressor followed us back out into the service corridor.

“They must be in the ballroom,” I said and Nightingale nodded. “Give me five minutes to calm them down and then come in.”

He nodded again. “Be careful,” he said.

The service corridor doglegged and ended in a door that led me out onto the landing that overlooked the length of the ballroom. Unlike the last time I’d visited, the tables had been laid out in an oval around the dance floor and covered in crisp white cloths.