By the sounds of things, Daniel Marek and Hanna Ruszy then joined Istvan in the hallway to see what all the thudding was. It occurred to Max, as she lay with her face squashed into Marek, Marek and Ruszy’s expensive green carpet, that this probably wasn’t the most secret a secret investigation had ever been.

But it also occurred to her, as she listened to Ester clambering to her feet with an almighty roar, that with her face in the carpet and her hat over her hair and her body half covered by the contents of the hatstand, they probably didn’t recognize her. Yet. So she lay face down, and prayed that they would leave quickly.

Thankfully, Ester was not someone who concerned herself with why other people might be lying around on carpets. As far as she was concerned, that was just the infuriating sort of thing that Other People did. She hurled a hurricane of outraged English at Marek, Marek and Ruszy, and the universe in general; then she stormed to the door dramatically, her walking stick click-click-clicking.

Klaus was more of a problem. He crouched down at Max’s side. “OK?” he asked. “OK?”

“Klaus,” bellowed Ester. And Klaus sighed, stood, and followed Ester to the door. The dramatic-storming-out was now slightly ruined, so Ester had to slam the door twice as hard to make the point.

Above Max, the doorman was rapidly explaining something in Hungarian. Presumably, the something was the presence of a small bobble-hatted Ester-trap lying in the hall.

Max had to get out of there before she lost Ester and Klaus, and was left stranded in some unknown corner of Budapest. She sat up. Three long, thin, silver-haired people peered down at her, swaying slightly, like riverside reeds perturbed by a strong wind. The doorman hovered anxiously behind them.

“Istvan Marek,” Max explained, standing and shoving the letter at the man nearest Istvan’s office. She made for the front door. But one of the reed people – the woman, so it had to be Hanna Ruszy – clamped surprisingly strong hands on her shoulders. Max wriggled, but with no luck.

The doorman must have told them she was French, because it was in French that the third of them – Daniel Marek – began to scold Max. Like Istvan, his voice was thin and breathy. The other two didn’t look like they were following the French, but they swayed about angrily in support of his general sentiment.

“Do you have any idea,” Daniel breathed, “who that was?”

“Sorry,” said Max, “but I’ve really got to—”

“Ester Rosenkrantz! The most important client who is ever likely to call on us.” The others sighed a rippling sigh at Ester’s name.

“Sorry,” Max repeated, “really. Could I just—”