Bel suppressed a painful smile as her maid repeated parrot-fashion the sentence she had suggested she say to her. ‘I’m sure I will be fine in Madame Duchaine’s capable hands,’ she replied.

‘Of course she will.’ Madame Duchaine smiled benignly at Bel.

As Loen nodded and left the salon, Bel could see that her eyes were large with trepidation. It was a lot to ask of her maid, but what choice did she have? ‘God speed,’ she whispered inwardly, then took a deep breath and turned back to the mirror.

Gustavo had ordered Jorge to take him to his club, which was only a few minutes’ walk from Madame Duchaine’s salon, and the address of the apartment where Brouilly apparently resided. He left the club and walked briskly along the street, deciding that as he was twenty minutes behind his wife, he would go directly to Brouilly’s apartment block. Finding there was a café on the other side of the road, Gustavo secreted himself in a corner of the pavement terrace and, feeling foolish, used his newspaper to disguise himself. Above the pages, his eyes flicked nervously back and forth along the busy street. The waitress came to take his order, and without diverting his gaze, he asked for a coffee.

Twenty minutes later, there was still no sign of his wife scurrying along the road to attend a rendezvous with her supposed lover. Every instinct in him wanted to leave, forget the whole thing. But, he rationalised, perhaps Bel would have a fitting first, giving her an alibi. So he gritted his teeth and forced himself to stay where he was.

And not long afterwards, Gustavo spied a familiar face walking fast along the street. It was not that of his wife, but her maid, Loen. Standing upright and knocking over his still full cup of coffee with a clatter, he threw some coins onto the table and darted through the traffic to the other side of the road. Walking past the apartment block and away from Loen,

who was approaching tentatively, stopping occasionally as if she was unsure of her destination, Gustavo secreted himself inside the doorway next to the entrance of Brouilly’s apartment.

Let this be a coincidence, he prayed, but a few seconds later, as Loen halted outside the next-door entrance just a few feet away from him, he knew it was not. Just as she made to enter the building, Gustavo stepped out in front of her.

‘Hello, Loen,’ he said as pleasantly as he could. ‘And where are you headed?’

If Gustavo wanted proof of his wife’s guilt, it was there in the terror that showed on her maid’s face as she stared at him.

‘I . . .’

‘Yes?’ Gustavo crossed his arms and waited for her reply.

‘I . . .’

Then he noticed that one of her hands was held protectively over the pocket of her apron. From the shape of it, it looked like it contained an envelope.