Schmidt had given me one of his keys, ‘just in case.’ I hadn’t asked, ‘Just in case of what?’ I had had other things on my mind. As I crossed the lobby, trying to look as if I were focusing on auras instead of potential kidnappers, I wished I had asked. There was no need for him to leave the room except to cash his traveller’s cheques, which wouldn’t take long, and every reason for him to stay put. Even if they located him they couldn’t get at him unless he opened the door, and surely Schmidt wouldn’t be foolish enough to admit anyone except . . . Except the room service? Someone imitating my voice?

John had gone ahead. He was waiting by the elevator when I got out of it. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

I didn’t ask how he could tell. He could always tell. ‘I’m having premonitions,’ I admitted.

‘It’s always best to assume the worst.’ He took the key from me. ‘Stand out of the way.’

He gave the door a sharp kick and dropped to a crouching position. ‘That’s what they do in the films,’ he remarked, straightening. ‘Futile, really, when you consider that most criminals use automatic weapons these days, but I suppose they believe it looks – ’

‘He’s not here. Damn the crazy old idiot, where the hell has he got to now?’

The doors to the bathroom and closet stood open. The import of that didn’t dawn on me until after we had investigated all possible hiding places; my morbid imagination was convinced we’d find Schmidt’s crumpled body in the bathtub or under the bed.

‘He must have left under his own steam; there’s no sign of a struggle,’ I said. ‘If he’s gone back to Larry’s, looking for me, I’ll kill him.’

‘He’s not gone there,’ John said.

‘What?’ I spun around. He was bending over the desk. ‘How do you know?’

‘He’s left you a note.’

The paper had been crumpled and then smoothed out. It was so badly stained by something brown and sticky that the words were barely legible.

‘My dear Vicky,’ it began. (I translate; he had written in German.) ‘I have the proof we need. I will drop this off at your hotel and then proceed to the rendezvous we . . .’

‘What is this?’ I demanded. ‘What proof? He never mentioned it to me. What hotel? What rendezvous?’

‘Calm down.’ John seated himself at the desk ‘Let’s see if we can figure out what he’s up to.’

‘Maybe we’d better get out of here.’

‘No need for haste. They’ve already been.’

‘How . . .’ I stopped myself. He was dying to show off; his half-smile and cool stare invited me to make a babbling fool of myself so he could patiently explain things to me. ‘Where was the note?’ I asked.