He grinned. ‘No, but I’m glad I did.’

‘Go back to your room. I have to shower. I might let you see more later.’

‘Oh, my God,’ he said.

He returned to his room. This was astonishing. ‘I might let you see more later,’ he repeated to himself aloud. What a thing for a girl to say!

He had a hard-on, but he did not want to jerk off when the real thing seemed so close. To take his mind off it, he went on unpacking. He had an expensive shaving kit, razor and brush with pearl handles, a present from his mother. He laid the things out in the bathroom, wondering whether they would impress Jacky if she saw them.

The walls were thin, and he heard the sound of running water from the next room. The thought of her body naked and wet possessed him. He tried to concentrate on arranging his underwear and socks in a drawer.

Then he heard her scream.

He froze. For a moment he was too surprised to move. What did it mean? Why would she yell out like that? Then she screamed again, and he was shocked into action. He threw open the communicating door and stepped into her room.

She was naked. He had never seen a naked woman in real life. She had pointed breasts with dark-brown tips. At her groin was a thatch of wiry black hair. She was cowering back against the wall, trying ineffectually to cover her nakedness with her hands.

Standing in front of her was Dave Rouzrokh, with twin scratches down his aristocratic cheek, presumably caused by Jacky’s pink-varnished nails. There was blood on the broad lapel of Dave’s double-breasted white jacket.

Jacky screamed: ‘Get him away from me!’

Greg swung a fist. Dave was an inch taller, but he was an old man, and Greg was an athletic teenager. The blow connected with Dave’s chin – more by luck than by judgement – and Dave staggered back then fell to the floor.

The room door opened.

The broad-shouldered hotel employee Greg had seen earlier came in. He must have a master key, Greg thought. ‘I’m Tom Cranmer, house detective,’ the man said. ‘What’s going on here?’

Greg said: ‘I heard her scream and came in to find him here.’

Jacky said: ‘He tried to rape me!’

Dave struggled to his feet. ‘That’s not true,’ he said. ‘I was asked to come to this room for a meeting with Sol Starr.’

Jacky began to sob. ‘Oh, now he’s going to lie about it!’

Cranmer said: ‘Put something on, please, miss.’

Jacky put on her pink bathrobe.

The detective picked up the room phone, dialled a number, and said: ‘There’s usually a cop on the corner. Get him into the lobby, right now.’

Dave was staring at Greg. ‘You’re Peshkov’s bastard, aren’t you?’

Greg was about to hit him again.

Dave said: ‘Oh, my God, this is a set-up.’

Greg was thrown by this remark. He felt intuitively that Dave was telling the truth. He dropped his fist. This whole scene must have been scripted by Lev, he realized. Dave Rouzrokh was no rapist. Jacky was faking. And Greg himself was just an actor in the movie. He felt dazed.