‘Where have you been?’ asked Laurence. She slapped him, hard, then put her arms around his neck.

‘Is Franklin upstairs?’ he asked.

‘He has a gun, monsieur,’ said the woman László recognized. ‘Like so...’ She indicated with her hands the dimensions of the weapon. ‘We wanted to call the police, but Madame has expressly forbidden it.’

‘He pointed it at me,’ said Laurence, shuddering at the memory. ‘I had to run out of the door. He’s crazy now. Completely crazy.’

She looked very close to collapse. László stroked her hair. ‘You know he wouldn’t have used it.’

She pushed him away. ‘You think I’m inventing this?’ Her voice broke in a sob. ‘He’ll use it on himself, László. I’ve been waiting for the noise. I can’t stand it.’

The women came forward to support her, but as they gathered her between them, those sturdy attendants, she looked at László, a sudden sharp glance that made the hairs prickle on his neck, for it was precisely the look of the woman in the painting, the bride in the dress of rose blooms. ‘I still love him,’ she whispered.

‘We all love him,’ said László. ‘I’ll go up and make him see sense.’ He turned to go, but Kurt caught hold of his arm. Gently, László freed himself. ‘I won’t do anything dangerous,’ he said. ‘But really, who else is there?’

He went up the broad bare wooden stairs, acutely aware of them watching his back. He felt slightly ridiculous, like George Orwell on his way to shoot an elephant, but he could hardly turn around and say he had changed his mind. He would have to trust himself. He was not tired. And if he stayed with the others and Franklin blew out his brains? No. That was not an option. He would have to go on. Go in.

The door of the apartment was half open, and he hesitated, listening for a minute, wondering whether he should call out. He put his head around the door. The hall light was still burning, and he noticed on the tiles Laurence’s suede jacket where she must have dropped it in her flight. On soft feet he went past the empty kitchen (the old clock ticking in the silence) and along the passageway to the door of the studio, where he leaned his ear to the wood. At first, despite the intensity of his focus, he could discern nothing except the ebbing and flowing of his own body, and certain stray effects from the street. But then, from near by – close! close! – he heard the hushed complaint of a floorboard, and had a vision, shockingly clear, of Franklin Wylie at arm’s length from him on the other side of the door, wild-eyed, the little snub pistol in his fist, waiting for the moment when the door would be opened.