'If I don't have a telephone call,' she said. 'Kiss the lady good night.'

I bent over and kissed the wide, dear mouth. Her eyes were closed, and I had the impression that she was asleep before I went through the door.

As I went through the baronial halls of the hotel to my room, I felt a surge of optimism. Through Zurich, St Moritz, Davos, Milan, and Venice, nothing good had happened to me, no voice had spoken to me reassuringly. Until this night. The future was far from certain, but there were gleams of hope.

Sweet St Valentine's Day.

Exhausted by the fitful wakefulness of my first night in Florence and my recent exertions, I fell into bed and slept soundly until almost noon.

When I awoke I lay still, staring at the ceiling, enjoying the feel of my body, smiling softly. I reached for the phone and 'asked for Lady Abbott. There was a long pause and then I heard the voice of the concierge. 'Lady Abbott checked out at ten am. No, she left no message.'

It cost me ten thousand lire and a lie to extract the forwarding address of Lady Abbott from one of the assistants behind the concierge's desk. Lady Abbott had left word that, while she wanted messages sent on to her, she did not want the address given out. As I slid the ten-thousand-lire note across to the man, I intimated that the lady had left a piece of jewelry of great value in my room and that it was imperative that I return it to her in person.

'Bene, signore,' the man said. 'It is the Hotel Plaza-Athénée, in Paris. Please explain the special circumstances to Lady Abbott.'

'I certainly shall,' I said.

I was in Paris, checking in at the Plaza-Athénée the next day at noon. Before I had time to ask the price of the room, I saw Lady Abbott. She was coming through the lobby on the arm of a hatless, graying man with a bushy British mustache who was wearing dark glasses. They were laughing together. I had seen the man before. It was Miles Fabian, the bridge player from the Palace Hotel in St Moritz.

They did not look in my direction, and went through the front door into the expensive sunlight of the Avenue Montaigne, two lovers in the city for lovers, on the way to an exquisite lunch, oblivious of the rest of the world, oblivious of me, standing just a few feet from where they had passed, with a stiletto in my overnight bag and murder in my heart.

12

The next morning I was in the lobby at eight-thirty. Two hours later she came through the lobby and went out. In Florence I had never seen her in daylight. She was more beautiful than I remembered. If ever there was a lady made for an American's dream of a wicked weekend in Paris, it was Lily Abbott.

I made sure she didn't see me, and after she was gone I went up to my room. There was no way of my knowing how long she would be gone from the hotel. So I moved quickly. I had packed Fabian's bag, with all his belongings, the hounds-tooth jacket on top, as I had found it. I called down to the concierge's desk and asked for a porter to come to my room and pick up a suitcase to take to Mr Fabian's room.

I had the stiletto letter-opener in its leather sheath in my pocket. The adrenalin was pumping through my system and my breathing was shallow and rapid. I had no plan beyond getting into Fabian's room and confronting him with his valise.

There was a knock on the door and I opened it for the porter. I followed him as he carried the valise to the elevator. He pushed the button for the sixth floor. Everything happens on the sixth floor, I thought, as we rose silently. When the elevator stopped and the door opened, I followed him down the corridor. Our footsteps made no sound on the heavy carpet. We passed nobody. We were in the hush of the rich. The man set the bag down at the door of a suite and was about to knock when I stopped him. 'That's all right,' I said, picking up the bag myself, 'I'll take it in. Mr Fabian is a friend of mine.' I gave the porter five francs. He thanked me and left.

I knocked gently on the door.

The door was opened and there was Fabian. He was completely dressed, ready to go out. At last we were face to face. Myself and SIoane's nemesis, riffling cards, afternoon and evening, at home in the haunts of wealth. Thief. He squinted slightly, as though he couldn't see me clearly. 'Yes?' he said politely.

'I believe this belongs to you, Mr Fabian,' I said and bulled past him, carrying the valise down a hall that led into a large living room which was littered with newspapers in several languages. There were flowers in vases everywhere. I dreaded to think of what he was paying each day for his lodgings. I could hear him closing the door behind me. I wondered if he was armed.

'I say,' he said, as I turned to him, 'there must be some mistake.'

'There's no mistake.'

'Who are you anyway? Haven't we met somewhere before?'

'In St Moritz.'

'Of course. You're the young man who attended to Mrs Sloane this year. I'm afraid I don't remember your name. Gr - Grimm, isn't it?'

'Grimes.'

'Grimes. Forgive me.' He was absolutely calm, his voice pleasant. I tried to control my breathing. 'I was just about to go out,' he said, 'but I can spare a moment. Do sit down.'

'I'd rather not, if you don't mind.' I gestured toward the suitcase, which I had deposited in the middle of the room. 'I'd just like you to open your bag and check that nothing's missing....'

'My bag? My dear fellow, I never...'

'I'm sorry about the broken lock...' I kept on talking. I did it before I realized I had the wrong one.'

'I just don't know what you're talking about. I never saw that bag before in my life.' If he had rehearsed a year for this moment, he couldn't have been more convincing.

'When you've finished and you're satisfied that I've taken nothing,' I said, 'I'd be obliged if you brought out my bag. With everything that was in it when you picked it up in Zurich. Everything.'

He shrugged. 'This is absolutely bizarre. If you want, you can search the apartment and see for yourself that...'

I reached into my pocket and took out Lily Abbott's letter.

"This was in your jacket,' I said. I took the liberty of reading it.'

He barely glanced at the letter. 'This is getting more and more mysterious, I must say.' He made a charming, deprecating gesture, too much of a gentleman to read another man's mail. 'No names, no dates.' He tossed the letter on a table. 'It might have been written to anyone, by anyone. Whatever gave you the idea that it had anything to do with me?' He was beginning to sound testy now.

'Lady Abbott gave me the idea,' I said.

'Oh, really,' he said. 'I must confess, she is a friend of mine. How is she anyway?'

'Ten minutes ago, when I saw her in the lobby, she was well,' I said.

'Good God, Grimes,' he said, 'don't tell me Lily is here in the hotel?'

'That's enough of that,' I said. 'You know what I'm here for. Seventy thousand dollars.'

He laughed, almost authentically. 'You're joking, aren't you? Did Lily put you up to this? She is a joker.'

'I want my seventy thousand dollars, Mr. Fabian,' I said. I made myself sound as menacing as possible.

'You must be out of your mind, sir,' Fabian said crisply. 'Now I'm afraid I must go.'

I grabbed him by the arm, remembering the wall-eyed man in the arcade in Milan. 'You're not leaving this room until I get my money,' I said. My voice rose and I was ashamed of the way I sounded. It was a situation for a basso and I was singing tenor. High tenor.

'Keep your hands off me.' Fabian pulled away and brushed fastidiously at his sleeve. 'I don't like to be touched. And if you don't get out right away, I'm calling the management and asking for the police....'

I picked up a lamp from the table and hit him on the head. The lamp shattered with the blow. Fabian looked surprised as he sank slowly to the floor. A thin trickle of blood ran down his forehead. I took out my paper knife and knelt beside him, waiting for him to come to. After about fifteen seconds be opened his eyes. The expression in them was vague, unfocused. I held the sharp, needle-like point of the stiletto to his throat. Suddenly, he was fully conscious. He didn't move, but looked up at me in terror.