At Courcelles I stepped off the train but my man did not. I climbed back on. The same happened at Monceau, and, by then, I had a sort of working hypothesis of what I’d witnessed at the Rothschild. My man was clearly not a part of Doumer’s security detail, but he was armed and in a position to see all that happened. Even after the assassin had removed the serviette from his forearm, a good five seconds passed before he pumped his bullets into the president. My man’s weapon was unholstered and aimed at the shooter, so why had he not fired? And why did he smile?

I was left with only one conclusion. The slurring Russian had been recruited by someone to shoot Doumer. Perhaps he had some grievance against the president about his treatment of Russians. He was clearly unstable but passionate. Someone had brought him into the hotel, perhaps as a guest. They’d provided him with a weapon and plied him with booze for Dutch courage. Only one thing was missing. The plan had to have a contingency. There had to be a second shooter in case the Russian folded or missed. Once the assassin had discharged his weapon, my man behind the pillar, a marksman, sober, would ensure that at least one bullet hit the target.

But the Russian did not fail. The president was dead, and the second shooter could return to his cabal and make his report.

At Villiers, my man stepped off the train and I was behind him. He was so confident that he no longer checked his back. I still had no idea what purpose my following him would serve. I wasn’t yet clear-headed enough to assess what the benefits for France or Europe or the world would be with Doumer dead. I didn’t really care. It just annoyed me that any idiot could undemocratically solve his problems with a gun or a sword or a stick of dynamite. Surely we’d progressed far enough from the ape to settle our differences without violence.