'Where? In some theatre of the mind?'

I ignored this and pressed on. 'Three nights ago there was an armed robbery at the Cardin Foundation. A gang stole a collection of furs being filmed in a Japanese commercial.'

'Right. I read about it in Nice-Matin. Economic terrorism, or some local turf war. You saw that take place?'

'Very clearly. It started at about 8.30 and was over sixty seconds later. The gang were highly professional.'

'Latvian KGB, probably. They have a lot of experience with valuable furs. And you were actually there? At the Foundation?'

'I was in a house nearby. Frances Baring was looking at a property. We had a clear view of the whole thing.'

'Frances Baring? She's rather attractive in her intense way. An old flame of Greenwood 's…' Momentarily lost, Penrose searched the ceiling. 'Frightening for you. But why do you assume the gang were involved with Eden-Olympia?'

' Frances drove me home. She dropped off some brochures for Zander. Do you know the Villa Grimaldi?'

'In Super-Cannes? It's owned by Eden-Olympia. We hold receptions and conferences there. It has a superb view – on a clear day you can practically see Africa, the next best thing to for ever…'

'I wandered into the library, and had quite a surprise. The billiard table was piled three feet high with stolen furs.'

'Why stolen?' Penrose massaged his face, as if trying to unify its separate components. 'There was a party going on – I was hoping to be there myself. The furs belonged to the wives. It was a cool night, perfect for a little power-dressing.'

'It was a stag party. No women were there. The furs carried Japanese designer labels. They were covered with talc and body paint – the models must have been naked.'

'Naked? Not quite what senior wives get up to at Eden-Olympia. More's the pity. But the furs…'

'Wilder, I saw them.'

'You thought you saw them. It's dark inside the Villa Grimaldi, you might have seen a trompe-l'oeil painting, some second-rate Meissonier.' He raised a hand to silence me. 'Paul, you've had a lot of spare time to cope with. Too much, perhaps. If you don't keep busy it's easy to find yourself in a state close to sensory deprivation. All kinds of chimeras float free, reality becomes a Rorschach test where butterflies turn into elephants.'

'No…' Doggedly, I said: 'The furs were there. I touched them with my hands. I saw the robbery take place. Alain Delage and another guest were watching a video taken at the scene.'

Penrose leaned back in his chair, bare left foot almost touching my knee in a curiously intimate gesture. 'They filmed their own crime? Isn't that a little strange?'

'I thought so. But the Cardin robbery was really a kind of sporting event. The film was a record of a successful hunting party. In fact, all the crimes are somehow… recreational.'

'That's rather good news.' Penrose chuckled over this. 'I didn't know there were any recreations at Eden-Olympia. And the racial crimes?'

'Raiding parties, usually against Arabs and blacks – ratissages, Halder calls them. Action groups drive into La Bocca and Mandelieu. They like to run Maghrebians off the road. Several victims have died, but the Cannes police hush it up.'

'Paul…' Penrose tried to calm me. 'Think about it a little. People drive more aggressively through immigrant areas. They're frightened of being stopped and robbed. Genuine accidents happen, though hating the Arabs doesn't help. Still, you've put together quite a dossier. Have you talked to anyone else?'

'No one. Not even Jane.'

'And Halder? I hear he fainted on the roof of the Siemens car park.'

'He claims he shot Greenwood. He probably did – there are bullet holes in the parapet and a drainpipe caked with blood. Halder can't cope with the idea that he killed Greenwood.'

'So he wants revenge – it's a way of shifting the blame.' Penrose roused himself, his powerful arms straining the leather straps of his chair. 'All this crime – why do you think it's happened?'

'I can't say. It amazes me that people here have the time and energy. They work all hours of the day, and must be exhausted when they get home. Somehow they pull themselves together and organize an armed robbery or beat up some Arabs.'

'Just for kicks?'

'No. That's the curious thing. None of them look as if they're having any fun. There's only one explanation.'

'And that is?'

'They're temporarily insane. Something about Eden-Olympia is driving them into brief fits of madness. You're the psychiatrist. You must know what's going on.'

'I do.' Penrose stood up, speaking briskly as he tightened his snakeskin belt. 'As it happens, I understand exactly.'

'Then come with me to the French authorities. We'll ask to see the Prefect.'

'I don't think so.'

'Why not? There'll be other violent crimes – you'll find a murder on your hands.'

'Very likely. But I have to think of the people here. Most of them are my patients.'

'Then why protect them?'

'That's not the point, Paul.'

'What is the point? Wilder, you can tell me.'

'It's been under your nose for months.' Penrose walked around my chair and placed his hands on my shoulders, like a headmaster with a promising but earnest pupil. 'You've come a long way. We're all very impressed.'

'Wilder…!' I shrugged off his hands. 'If I have to, I'll see the Prefect alone.'

'That wouldn't be wise.' He moved towards the door on his bare feet. 'I'll explain everything in a moment. There's an advanced therapy programme you'll find interesting. You might even want to join us…'

'Wilder, I mean it.'

'It's all right. I don't want you to worry.' He stood by the Alice mirror, smiling with genuine warmth, as if he had just emerged from Carroll's paradoxical world. 'The people at Eden-Olympia aren't mad. Their problem is that they're too sane…'

29 The Therapy Programme

Elaborately wrapped in rice paper, the parcel lay across my lap, emitting the softest breath of rustling fur.

'Is it alive?' I touched the chrysanthemum-patterned paper. 'Wilder…?'

'It's a present for Jane. A token of our thanks to you both. Open it, Paul. It won't bite.'

I unfolded the envelope and exposed a lustrous pelt, the fur of some drowsing creature in a Dutch genre painting, every hair as vibrant as an electron track in a cloud chamber.

'It's a stole, Paul. The best ranch mink, so they say. We thought Jane would like it.'

A faint scent rose from the fur, the body odours of Japanese models chilled by the Riviera night. I laid the parcel on the coffee table. 'Thanks, but it's the last thing she'd wear. Still, you've made your point.'

'Paul?'

'The raid at the Cardin Foundation – the stole was part of the booty. It's your sly way of telling me you knew about the robbery.'

Penrose sat facing me, elbows on his heavy knees. He raised his hands, as if to ward off a blow. 'Paul? You're trembling. Not with rage, I hope?'

'Just for a moment. I'm tempted to punch you in the face.'

'I understand. I'm not sure how I'd react. You must feel you've been…'

'Used? A little.' The parcel lay against my knee, and I kicked it onto the floor. 'You knew the Cardin robbery was going to take place.'

'I suppose I did.'

'And the other robberies and special actions I've spent months tracking down – they're not exactly a surprise to you?'

'That's true.'

'The ratissage in the Rue Valentin? The road-rage attacks in La Bocca? The drug-dealing business run by Professor Berthoud and Olga Carlotti's teenage vice ring? You knew all about them?'

'Paul, it's my job. I have to know everything about the people here. How else can I care for them?'

'Does that include David Greenwood? As a matter of interest, why did he go berserk?'

'No…' Penrose reached out and gripped my shaking hands, releasing them when I sat back. 'That I can't explain. We hoped you might tell us.'