Kale finished his beer, left fifty francs in the saucer, and went out into the street. He scuffed along the pavement close to the wall, away from the boulevard, turning left into the Rue Neuve and along to the Place de la Monnaie. A great weight had settled on him. He stopped to light a cigarette and looked up to see the man he had followed to the hospital.

Bannerman was crossing the square only fifty metres away. Kale stood transfixed, watching as the man climbed the steps to the heavy swing doors of the Post Office. It all came back to him. The knowledge of what he must do. He might almost have cried. Something he had not done since childhood. But then, that would have shown weakness, and he could not afford to find yet more fault in himself. He slipped his right hand into his coat pocket and felt the slip of paper he had drawn from the left-luggage locker. Just three words. They very nearly burned his fingers.

II

Some time later, Bannerman stepped into the warmth of the IPC building. There was still an ache in his bones and he felt a slight shiver raise goosebumps on his skin. A fine, cold sweat crawled across his forehead. He passed the reception desk. The telephonist did not look up from her magazine. In the press bar he sat on one of the high stools and leaned forward on his elbows, breathing heavily. The barman raised an eyebrow. ‘Monsieur?’

‘Whisky.’

He clutched the glass with trembling fingers and poured its golden warmth over his throat.

‘Another.’

We are making every effort to find her. Du Maurier’s words came back to him. They had been walking across the street from the auberge to the car, the sun rising over the tops of trees that were sculpture against the palest of skies. ‘But there has been none of the attendant publicity you would expect. People in high places are afraid it could resurrect the entire case. And God forbid such people might put the welfare of a child above their own survival.’

Bannerman’s breath had drifted like mist into the early morning. ‘Is there any chance, do you think, that they will find her alive?’

Du Maurier said, ‘You want my honest opinion?’

Bannerman nodded, knowing what the answer would be.

‘No.’

‘And I suppose nothing of what happened here last night will reach the papers either.’

Du Maurier cast him a cynic’s glance. ‘Monsieur Bannerman, it never happened.’

‘And if I choose to go public?’

‘Someone will stop you.’

‘But not you?’

‘Not me.’

Bannerman drained his second glass, dropped some coins on the counter and limped back out to the lifts. The whisky had restored some of his strength and numbed a little of his pain.

Mademoiselle Ricain looked up in surprise as he came into the office.

‘Monsieur Bannerman . . .’ She seemed embarrassed. ‘What happened to your face?’

He just shook his head.