'I thought I would extricate you,' Madame Kollwitz said after we had got into her carriage and lumbered off along the Seine. 'I am in fact quite capable of finding my own way home. I have done so on many occasions. But you were staring in a way which was quite impolite, you know.'

'I suppose I was,' I said. 'I think that will be the end of it, though.'

She sighed pityingly.

'What have I said now?'

'Do you think a woman like that would ever fight with someone she cared nothing for?'

'But he's . . . well, he's a lot older than she is. Besides, she's not – well, not the type to . . .'

'We shall see. Who knows? She may have met her match this time. Mr Stone does not behave like a lapdog when he is around her. Unlike M. Rouvier, for example. I almost think it is her duty to skin him alive, although I never thought he would be quite so foolish.'

'What do you mean? The Finance Minister?'

'Of course.'

'Isn't he married?'

She laughed again. 'Of course he's married. What I mean is that he is not rich. And rumour has it he gives her fifty thousand a month.'

'What?'

'Are you really this naïve?'

'I think I must be,' I said – very convincingly, I believe, for the pitying, scornful look came back to her face. 'I'm sure none of it can be true.'

'Well,' she said, patting me on the hand, 'that's very sweet of you.'

'But if it was, I mean, where does he get it from? Rouvier, that is.'

She shrugged. 'I've no idea. Where might the Minister of Finance get money from? Difficult one to answer, isn't it?'

'Is there anything you don't know?'

'I know nothing about you, young man. But then, maybe you're not very interesting. Perhaps there is nothing to know.'

'I don't think there is.'

'Everyone in Paris has a secret, and thinks it is theirs alone. Even my husband thinks I believe him when he says he is going back to the office for an hour.' She said it lightly, but turned her head to look out of the window as she spoke.

'Stick to journalism, Mr Cort, where you never have to understand anything. Or you will find that Paris is a cruel and pitiless place. And tell that to our mysterious Countess as well. Her novelty is wearing off, and many people will take too much pleasure in seeing her fall.'

I left her at the door to her apartment block, her words echoing in my ears. It was late and I had work to do the next morning. I wanted a good night's sleep.

CHAPTER 14

I took a gun with me when I went to visit Simon in Belleville. I have mentioned that I did not like them; I still do not. But at that stage I could not call on anyone to assist me in such matters, and Simon was (I recalled) a very big man. I was much more nimble and, I thought, probably more skilled, but if I do have to fight, I prefer the outcome to be beyond all doubt. On such occasions there is little virtue in only just winning.

The meeting, in fact, was quite simple; Simon was totally unskilled in subterfuge. All he had done was rent the room under an assumed name: that was the extent of his precautions. It was a simple matter to wait until I was sure he was at home, then go up the stairs and walk in. It was a dingy boarding house, unlit and run-down, which let out rooms to day labourers and itinerants with few questions asked. A place of hopelessness and despair, cold and depressing. Because of the time of day, it was all but deserted; only the concierge was there on the ground floor, and Simon's room was at the very top of the building, well out of earshot. I would not be disturbed.

'Good morning, Simon. I trust you are well. The Countess has been worrying about you. You really shouldn't have run off like that, you know. Not without giving her proper notice.'

He stared at me in shock, too dim-witted to understand how easy it had been to find him. My sudden appearance at his door in itself was almost enough to win the battle; he was unnerved from the start and, wisely or not, decided the best response was to say nothing at all. All he could manage, however, was a look of bovine incomprehension that made him look so stupid it was hard not to burst out laughing.

'May I sit down?' I did not wait for an answer, but occupied the only chair in the room, a rickety thing which felt very insecure. To make a small point, I took out the gun and placed it on the table. Not touching it, but making sure it was pointing in his direction.

'The Countess is concerned you were not paid your last week's wages,' I said. 'So she asked me to pay a visit and make sure you are well.'

He briefly seemed to think that he might be off the hook, despite the gun; then even he realised that there was more to come.

'And she was concerned that you may have inadvertently taken some of her possessions. She wants them back.'

'I didn't take anything.' He had a low, oddly well-spoken voice; it almost sounded as though it came from a different person entirely.

'Now, Simon. We both know that is not so. I have come to take these things back. In return, I will pay you the wages you are owed.'

He shrugged, his confidence returning. 'I have nothing. What are you going to do? Call the police?'

I considered. 'No, I think not. You know as well as I do that would be a bad idea.'

'You're out of luck, then.'

'No. I will shoot you.' I picked up the gun and made a show of checking it was loaded.

'Knees first, elbows second. Where do you want to start?'

I editorialise. I was not calm as I said all this; I was sweating profusely and I only just kept my voice from shaking. That may have helped; it did much, I believe, to convince him that I was serious. A nervous man with a gun is much more dangerous than a calm, reasonable one.

Simon was not overly intelligent, but he was good at calculating his position. He had nothing to gain from resisting. Only stubborn pride might have stopped him from falling in with my wishes.

'Where are those diaries?' I said.

'I don't have them.'

'But you stole them?'

'She's no Countess.'

'Of course she isn't,' I replied evenly. 'She's just a whore. You don't really think that anyone will pay for that, do you? Where are they?'

'Oh, there's more. There's much more than that,' he jeered at me. 'There's a lot about her you don't know.'

'No doubt; but I can't say it bothers me. Where are they?'

He grinned. 'I told you; I don't have them.'

'Who does?'

'A man. Friend of mine. A good friend. He's looking after them for me.'

Oh, really! It was late; I was tired. I sighed with exasperation and picked up the gun.

'Who is he?' I repeated.

'Ten thousand,' he said defiantly.

'Just to tell me where they are? You must think I'm a fool.'

'It's worth that to you, Mr Cort,' he said. 'I've been reading about you, as well.'

That was a mistake. I picked up the gun, thought for a moment, then shot him in the leg, the way I had been taught. Simon collapsed onto the floor, gripping his thigh, and screaming; I stuffed a piece of cloth into his mouth and held him down until he stopped, avoiding the spreading pool of blood flowing across the floor as much as possible. I was now entirely calm.

'Who is he?' I said once more.

It took a long time to get it out of him, but what he eventually said made my heart sink. Arnsley Drennan was back in my life. A man calling himself Lefevre, he said. Fifties, fair hair. Thin scar on his face. He had met him in a bar, they'd talked. He'd offered to help, he'd been very persuasive . . .

I sat down on the chair again, oblivious to his moaning. This was bad news. An opportunist thief turned blackmailer like Simon was a simple problem; Arnsley Drennan was another thing entirely. A much more formidable challenge.

'Where is he?'

Again, it took a long time to get a coherent answer. 'I don't know. I really don't,' he moaned as I raised the gun in warning. 'I told you, I met him in a bar.'