Deliberately he had given Kurtz no warning of his visit. Better to find him out than a reception prepared for him. He was careful to carry with him all his papers, including the laissez-passer of the Four Powers that on the face of it allowed him to move freely through all the zones of Vienna. It was extraordinarily quiet over here on the other side of the canal, and a melodramatic journalist had painted a picture of silent terror, but the truth was simply the wider streets, the greater shell damage, the fewer people – and Sunday afternoon. There was nothing to fear, but all the same, in this huge empty street where all the time you heard your own feet moving, it was difficult not to look behind.

He had no difficulty in finding Kurtz’s block, and when he rang the bell the door was opened quickly, as though Kurtz expected a visitor, by Kurtz himself.

‘Oh,’ Kurtz said, ‘it’s you, Mr Martins,’ and made a perplexed motion with his hand to the back of his head. Martins had been wondering why he looked so different, and now he knew. Kurtz was not wearing the toupée, and yet his head was not bald. He had a perfectly normal head of hair cut close. He said, ‘It would have been better to have telephoned to me. You nearly missed me; I was going out.’

‘May I come in a moment?’

‘Of course.’

In the hall a cupboard door stood open, and Martins saw Kurtz’s overcoat, his raincoat, a couple of soft hats, and, hanging sedately on a peg like a wrap, Kurtz’s toupée. He said, ‘I’m glad to see your hair has grown,’ and saw, in the mirror on the cupboard door, the hatred flame and blush on Kurtz’s face. When he turned Kurtz smiled at him like a conspirator and said vaguely, ‘It keeps the head warm.’

‘Whose head?’ Martins asked, for it had suddenly occurred to him how useful that toupée might have been on the day of the accident. ‘Never mind,’ he went quickly on, for his errand was not with Kurtz. ‘I’m here to see Harry.’

‘Harry?’

‘I want to talk to him.’

‘Are you mad?’

‘I’m in a hurry, so let’s assume that I am. Just make a note of my madness. If you should see Harry – or his ghost – let him know that I want to talk to him. A ghost isn’t afraid of a man, is it? Surely it’s the other way round. I’ll be waiting in the Prater by the Big Wheel for the next two hours – if you can get in touch with the dead, hurry.’ He added, ‘Remember, I was Harry’s friend.’