Lafcadio collected Fleurissoire’s body from Naples. It was transported in a mortuary van that was coupled to the rear of the train, although he had not felt that it was vital for him to travel with the corpse. Even so, his sense of decorum made him take a seat in a compartment that while not absolutely the closest he could find – because the last carriage was second-class accommodation – was as close to the body as the first-class carriages would allow. Having left Rome in the morning, he was due back in the evening of the same day. He was nevertheless reluctant to accept a new feeling that crept up on him as he travelled, for there was nothing he despised more than boredom, that secret affliction he had so far been saved from by the fine, careless appetites of his youth and then by harsh necessity. And so, quitting his compartment with a heart empty of both hope and joy, he paced moodily up and down the carriage corridor, nagged by an ill-defined curiosity and doubtfully looking for he knew not what new and absurd project to test himself on. Nothing seemed to match up to his aspirations. He had stopped thinking about taking ship for the East and unwillingly acknowledged that Borneo now seemed as profoundly dull as did the rest of Italy. Even the ramifications of his adventure failed to interest him: it just seemed compromising and peculiar to him now. Angry with Fleurissoire for not having struggled more, he railed inwardly at the pitiful figure of his victim and would have liked to erase him from his mind.

On the other hand, he would very much have liked to bump into the fellow who had made off with his suitcase again. A serious prankster! … And as if he might just be waiting there to be glimpsed at Capua station, Lafcadio leant out of the window, scouring the deserted platform. But would he even recognise him? He had only seen him from behind, already some way away and disappearing into the darkness … In his imagination he followed him into the night, as far as the Volturno’s river bed, coming across the hideous corpse, robbing it and, in a defiant gesture, cutting out of the lining of the hat, his own hat, Lafcadio’s, that piece of leather ‘the shape and size of a laurel leaf’ as the newspaper had so elegantly phrased it. Lafcadio was nevertheless extremely grateful to the suitcase thief for having removed such an incriminating piece of evidence – his outfitter’s name – from the police’s scrutiny. Doubtless the aforesaid corpse robber himself had every reason for not wanting to attract attention to himself – and if, despite everything, he decided to make use of his leather souvenir, then, good Lord! it might be rather amusing to confront him.

Dusk had fallen. A waiter from the restaurant car came past, informing first-and second-class passengers up and down the train that dinner was being served. Not feeling hungry, but with the prospect of being rescued from his idle state for an hour, Lafcadio trailed in the wake of several others, though a long way behind them. The restaurant car was at the head of the train. The carriages Lafcadio passed through were empty. Here and there various objects on the seats indicated and reserved the diners’ places: shawls, pillows, books, newspapers. A lawyer’s briefcase caught his eye. Certain of being the last, he paused outside the compartment, then went in. To tell the truth, the briefcase itself was of little interest to him. It was mainly so as not to overlook the slightest opportunity that he rifled through its contents. On an inner label, in inconspicuous gold letters, the briefcase bore the name:

It contained two pamphlets on criminal law and six copies of La Gazette des Tribunaux.

More bumf for Julius’s conference, Lafcadio thought. Dull, dull, dull. And he put it all back in the briefcase before stepping out to catch up with the line of passengers on their way to the restaurant car.

A frail-looking young girl and her mother stood at the back of the queue, both in mourning clothes, and directly in front of them was a man in a frock coat and top hat with long straight hair and thick, greying sideburns: Monsieur Defouqueblize himself, probably, the briefcase’s owner. The passengers made their way forward slowly and unsteadily with the swaying of the train. Just where the corridor turned at the end of the carriage, as the professor was about to step into that sort of accordion that connects one carriage to the next, a more pronounced jolt made him lurch. Jerking backwards to try to regain his balance, he sent his pince-nez, its ribbon pulled free, flying into the corner of the narrow corridor space in front of the door of the WC. As he bent down to try to retrieve it, the woman and her daughter stepped past him. For a few moments Lafcadio watched his efforts with amusement. Impotent and defenceless, he groped feebly and with anxious hands across the floor of the corridor: he looked as though he was performing the shuffling dance of a bear or had regressed to his childhood and was playing ‘Heads, shoulders, knees and toes’. Come on, Lafcadio! Be decent. Listen to your heart, which has not been entirely corrupted yet. Give the poor man a hand. Pick up his glasses, you know he can’t do without them, and nor will he find them on his own. Another step in that direction and he’ll tread on them … At that moment a fresh jolt threw the unfortunate man head first against the door of the WC. His top hat absorbed the impact, but was half flattened and ended up jammed over his ears. Monsieur Defouqueblize groaned, straightened, and tugged his hat off. Lafcadio, meanwhile, judging the joke had gone far enough, picked up the pincenez, placed it in the hat the man was holding out as though asking for alms, and made his escape, deaf to all thanks.

Dinner had started. Lafcadio sat down at a table for two next to the glass door, on the right-hand side of the car. The seat opposite was vacant. On the other side of the aisle, level with his table, the widow and her daughter had sat at a table for four, two seats of which were vacant.

‘How dull these places always are!’ Lafcadio said to himself, his languid gaze straying over the other diners and not finding a single face interesting enough to rest on. ‘All these cattle treating life as if it were an endlessly tedious chore, instead of the entertainment it really is, or can be … And so badly dressed. But they’d be even uglier naked! I’ll have died of boredom before the dessert course if I don’t get some champagne.’

The professor came in. He must have gone to wash his hands after dirtying them in the search, and was now examining his nails. A waiter sat him opposite Lafcadio. The wine waiter was going through the car. Lafcadio, not speaking, pointed to a Montebello Grand Crémant for twenty francs and Monsieur Defouqueblize ordered a bottle of Saint-Galmier water. He was now holding his pince-nez between two fingers, gently breathing on it and cleaning it with the corner of his napkin. Lafcadio watched him, fascinated by his mole-like eyes blinking beneath heavy, reddened eyelids.

‘Fortunately he doesn’t know that it’s me who gave him his sight back! If he starts thanking me, I shall move tables immediately.’

The wine waiter came back with the Saint-Galmier and the champagne, which he uncorked first and placed between the two diners. The bottle was no sooner on the table than Defouqueblize reached for it without checking which it was and poured himself a glassful that he swallowed in a single gulp … The wine waiter was about to intervene, but Lafcadio stopped him, laughing.

‘What on earth am I drinking?’ Defouqueblize exclaimed, pulling a horrible face.

‘This gentleman’s Montebello,’ the wine waiter said stiffly. ‘This is your Saint-Galmier water!’

He put down the second bottle.

‘I’m extremely sorry, Monsieur … My eyesight is so poor … I’m covered in confusion, believe me—’

‘You would give me great pleasure, Monsieur,’ Lafcadio interrupted, ‘if you would stop apologising – and then accept another glass, if of course you enjoyed the first one.’

‘Alas, Monsieur, I’ll admit to you that I thought it was quite loathsome, and I do not understand how, in my distracted state, I was able to swallow a whole glass. I was so thirsty … Tell me, Monsieur, if you wouldn’t mind, that wine is extremely strong, is it not? … Because I must tell you, I never drink anything but water … The slightest drop of alcohol always goes straight to my head … Good heavens! Good heavens! What is going to happen to me? … Perhaps if I went straight back to my compartment? … I’m certain that I’d better lie down.’

He made a movement as if to get to his feet.

‘Stay! Do stay, Monsieur,’ Lafcadio said, beginning to enjoy himself. ‘On the contrary, you’d be better off eating your dinner and not worrying about the wine. I’ll take you back to your compartment in a little while if you need some help getting there, but don’t worry: what you’ve drunk wouldn’t make a baby’s head spin.’

‘I’d like to believe what you say. But truly I don’t know how you … Might I offer you a glass of Saint-Galmier?’

‘I’m obliged to you, but will you forgive me if I prefer my champagne?’

‘Ah! So it really was champagne! And … you’re going to drink all that?’

‘To set your mind at rest.’

‘You’re too kind, although in your place I—’

‘Suppose you ate something now?’ Lafcadio interrupted, turning to his own food and finding Defouqueblize tiresome. His attention had been attracted by the widow.

Definitely Italian. Her late husband probably an officer. What dignity in the way she carries herself! What tenderness in her eyes! How pure her complexion is! How intelligent her hands are! What elegance there is in her clothes, and simplicity too … Lafcadio, when you can no longer hear in your heart the harmonies of such deep refinement, may that heart have ceased to beat! Her daughter looks like her, and with what nobility – tinged with seriousness, almost sadness – the child’s excess of grace is tempered! With what loving solicitude her mother leans towards her! Before beings like those two, even the devil would bow down. For beings like them, Lafcadio, there is no question that your heart would devote itself wholeheartedly …

The waiter had come to serve the next course. Lafcadio relinquished his plate, which was still half full, because at that moment he was suddenly dumbfounded by what he saw: the widow, his delicately refined widow, had leant out into the gangway and, deftly hitching up her skirt with the most natural movement, revealed a scarlet stocking and an exquisitely shaped calf.

So unexpectedly did this provocative note break into the dignified gravity of the symphony … had he dreamt it? The waiter, meanwhile, had returned with a clean plate. Lafcadio was about to serve himself, and his gaze went to his plate, and what he saw there finished him off.

There, in front of him, clearly visible in the middle of his plate, fallen from heaven knows where but hideous and instantly recognisable … do not doubt it, Lafcadio, do not doubt it for a moment: it is Carola’s cufflink! The one with the two cat’s heads, missing from Fleurissoire’s second cuff. The whole business is turning into a nightmare … But the waiter is bending over the dish. Adroitly Lafcadio wipes his plate, sweeping the ghastly trinket onto the tablecloth, puts his plate back down over it, serves himself generously, fills his glass with champagne, gulps it down and refills it. For now, if the man who has not eaten is already having drunken visions … No, it’s no hallucination: he can hear the cufflink crunch against his plate. He tilts it, scoops out the cufflink, slips it into his waistcoat pocket next to his watch, and feels for it to reassure himself: yes, it’s there, safely hidden away … But who can say how it got to be on his plate? Who put it there? … Lafcadio looks at Defouqueblize: the professor is eating unconcernedly, his nose in his food. Wanting to take his mind off things, Lafcadio glances again at the widow, but everything in her gestures and dress has gone back to being decent and mundane. He finds her less pretty than before. He tries hard to conjure up her provocative gesture again, her red stocking, and cannot. He tries hard to visualise the cufflink on his plate again, and if he could not feel it there, in his pocket, he would definitely doubt … More to the point, though, why did he pick up the cufflink? … Which did not belong to him. By making that instinctive, absurd gesture, what an admission he had made! As if he had owned up … identified himself to whoever it was, and perhaps also to the police, who are doubtless lying in wait, watching him … He has blundered into this crude trap like an amateur. He feels himself turning pale. He turns round sharply: there is no one behind the glass door into the corridor … But perhaps someone saw him just now! He forces himself to carry on eating, but his teeth are clenched in annoyance. Poor Lafcadio! It is not his dreadful crime that he regrets, but being haplessly caught off guard … What’s wrong with the professor now? Why is he smiling at him like that? …

Defouqueblize had finished eating. He wiped his lips. With both elbows on the table, nervously twisting his napkin, he began to stare at Lafcadio. His lips shifted in a queer sort of grin. Eventually, as if unable to restrain himself any longer, he said, ‘Dare I ask for just a little more, Monsieur?’

He shyly pushed his glass towards the almost empty bottle.

Lafcadio, distracted from his anxiety and glad of the diversion, poured him the last drops.

‘I’m afraid I can’t give you much … But would you like me to order some more?’

‘Well, I think a half-bottle ought to be enough.’

Defouqueblize, already distinctly tipsy, had lost all sense of propriety. Lafcadio, for whom champagne held no terrors and who was amused by the other’s unworldliness, asked the waiter to open a second bottle of Montebello.

‘No! No! Don’t give me too much,’ Defouqueblize said, raising his swaying glass, which Lafcadio had just filled to the brim. ‘It’s odd that I should have thought it so unpleasant to begin with. One makes monsters out of so many things like that, just because one doesn’t know them. There I was thinking I was drinking Saint-Galmier, and so I thought it had a decidedly peculiar taste for Saint-Galmier, you see. It’s as if someone poured you some Saint-Galmier when you were expecting to drink champagne, and you’d say, wouldn’t you, that tastes decidedly peculiar for champagne!’

He laughed at his own joke and then leant across the table towards Lafcadio, who was also laughing, and said in a low voice, ‘I don’t know what’s making me laugh like this: it must be your wine’s doing. I suspect it’s definitely a bit more potent than you say. Haha! But you’ll help me back to my carriage, won’t you? We agreed, didn’t we? We’ll be alone there, and if I misbehave you’ll know why.’

‘When you travel,’ Lafcadio averred, ‘you don’t need to worry about consequences.’

‘Ah, Monsieur,’ Defouqueblize replied, ‘if only one could be certain that there was no need to worry about consequences, as you put it so neatly, where everything one did in life was concerned! If only one could guarantee that it didn’t embroil one in anything else … Look, precisely these things I’m saying to you, here and now, and which after all are perfectly natural thoughts, do you think I’d dare say them so unguardedly if we were in Bordeaux? I say Bordeaux because that’s where I live. I’m known and respected there. Although I’m unmarried, I have a nice quiet life there, and my profession is well regarded: I’m a professor at the law faculty – yes, comparative criminology, a new chair … But you see, I’m not allowed, there I’m not actually allowed to get tipsy, not even once and not by accident. My life must be respectable at all times. Imagine if one of my students were to meet me drunk in the street! … Respectable at all times, and without appearing to be in any way constrained. That’s the snag: one must not arouse any suspicion. “Monsieur Defouqueblize” (that’s my name) “does a jolly good job of keeping himself in check!”… One must not only never do anything out of the ordinary, but also persuade others that one couldn’t do anything out of the ordinary even under the severest provocation, that one simply has nothing out of the ordinary inside one, wanting to get out. Is there a little wine left? Just a drop, dear partner in crime, just a drop … An opportunity such as this occurs once in a lifetime. Tomorrow in Rome, at the conference we are all attending, I shall find dozens of colleagues, serious, civilised, restrained men, as stuffy as I shall also become the moment I’m back in harness. People who are public figures, such as you or I, Monsieur, are duty-bound to live inauthentic lives.’

Dinner was coming to an end. A waiter came past, settling diners’ bills and collecting tips.

As the restaurant car emptied, Defouqueblize’s voice deepened and got louder. There were moments when his animation began to make Lafcadio feel uneasy. He went on, ‘And if society did not exist to keep us in check, that group of our relations and friends whom we can’t bring ourselves to upset would do its job for it. Holding up against our uncivilised authenticity an image of ourselves that we’re only half responsible for, that bears little resemblance to who we are, but which it’s profoundly improper to cast aside. At this moment – I can’t deny it – I’ve cast aside that image, escaped from myself … Oh, giddy adventure! Oh, delicious peril! … I’m sorry, am I boring you to tears?’

‘I find you curiously interesting.’

‘I can’t stop talking, talking … I can’t help it! Even when one’s drunk, one is still a professor, and the subject is close to my heart … But if you have finished eating, perhaps you’d be so kind as to offer me your arm to help me back to my compartment while I’m still capable of standing. I’m afraid if I stay on here much longer, I shan’t be able to get up at all.’

As he said it Defouqueblize made a sort of lunge as if to extricate himself from his chair, but fell heavily back down and half slumped across the empty table, the upper part of his frame sprawled close to Lafcadio. He started speaking again, this time in a softer, half-confidential voice.

‘Here’s my thesis. Do you know what it takes to turn  an honest man into a rascal? All it takes is a change of scene, forgetting where you once were! Yes, Monsieur, one’s memory goes blank, and authenticity emerges! … A cessation of continuity, a simple disruption of the current. Naturally I don’t say that when I’m teaching … But between ourselves, what an advantage it gives to the child born out of wedlock! Think about it: the being who owes his very existence to a misdemeanour, to a flaw in the family’s straight line of descent …’

The professor’s voice had become louder again. He was now staring at Lafcadio with a strange look in his eyes that was alternately vague and piercing and beginning to worry him. Lafcadio’s next thought was to wonder whether the man’s short-sightedness was feigned, and almost whether he recognised his look. More uneasy than he would have liked to admit, he got to his feet and said abruptly, ‘Let us go, Monsieur Defouqueblize. Take my arm. Stand up. Enough talking.’

Defouqueblize, with a great stumbling effort, got up from his chair. Staggering, the two men made their way down the corridor to the compartment where the professor had left his briefcase. Defouqueblize went in first, and Lafcadio sat him down and took his leave. He had just turned to go, when a powerful hand landed on his shoulder. He spun round. Defouqueblize had leapt to his feet … but was it still Defouqueblize who was exclaiming, in a voice that was simultaneously mocking, commanding and jubilant, ‘You really ought not to try to abandon a friend so quickly, Monsieur Lafcadio Whoeveryouareski! So …? Is it true? Were you just going to run away?’

Of the tottering, tipsy, buffoonish professor of a few moments ago there was now no sign in the tall, well-built, vigorously youthful man whom Lafcadio no longer had any hesitation in identifying as Protos: a bigger, broader, larger Protos, who gave an impression of daunting force.

‘Ah. It is you, Protos,’ he said simply. ‘I like that better. I couldn’t decide whether it was or it wasn’t.’

Because, however ominous it might be, Lafcadio preferred reality to the outlandish nightmare he had been struggling to deal with for the last hour.

‘Not badly made up, was I? I made a special effort for you … Even so, you’re the one who ought to be wearing glasses, my boy. You’ll go getting yourself into serious trouble if you can’t recognise “the subtle” better than that.’

What half-submerged memories that word ‘subtle’ brought to the surface of Cadio’s mind! A ‘subtle’, in the slang he and Protos had used from the time when they had been at boarding school together, a subtle was a man who, for whatever reason it might be, did not present to everyone and in every situation the same appearance. The two of them had created numerous categories of ‘subtle’, all more or less elegant and praiseworthy, and in contrast to them had designated an opposing, unified and more numerous force known as ‘the mossbacks’ whose members, whatever walk of life they came from, behaved as if it belonged to them by entitlement.

Our schoolfriends took two tenets for granted:

1) The subtle recognise each other.

2) Mossbacks do not recognise the subtle.

All of this came back to Lafcadio, and as it was his nature to throw himself into the spirit of any game, he smiled.

Protos went on, ‘Even so, the other day you were glad I was there, I think I’m right in saying … It wasn’t perhaps entirely by chance. I like to keep an eye on the novices: they’re imaginative, they’re enterprising, they have style … But they’re a bit too fond of supposing that they can do without advice. Your disguise was famously in need of some retouching, my boy! … What was the idea of wearing a titfer like that when you were on the job? With the maker’s name on that nice bit of evidence, they’d have fingered you within a week. But I keep a soft spot for old friends, and I’ll prove it. You do know, don’t you, Cadio, that I was very fond of you? I always thought we might make something of you. With your good looks we could have made a clean sweep of all the women, and for that matter one or two of the men into the bargain. I was so pleased to hear news of you after so long, and to hear you were coming to Italy! And, you know, I was all ears to hear what had happened to you since the days we went to that little tart of ours. You’re not so bad-looking even now, you know. Ah, that Carola, she was an uppity little minx!’

Lafcadio’s annoyance was becoming more and more evident, as were his efforts to conceal it, all of which amused Protos greatly, even as he pretended not to be aware of it. From his waistcoat pocket he pulled out a piece of leather and examined it.

‘I did a nice job of cutting that out, didn’t I?’

Lafcadio could have strangled him. He clenched his fists until his nails dug into his skin. Protos continued to needle him.

‘And a nice favour, I’d say! Easily worth the six thousand francs that … Well, you tell me, why didn’t you trouser them?’

Lafcadio was rigid with indignation.

‘Do you take me for a thief?’

‘Hear this, my boy,’ Protos went on calmly, ‘I don’t like amateurs much: it’s better that I tell you that straight up. And in any case, with me, you know, there’s no point your being full of yourself or playing dumb. You show promise, I grant you, extraordinary promise, but—’

‘That’s enough of your condescension,’ Lafcadio interrupted, unable to contain his anger. ‘What’s your point? I made a mistake the other day – do you think I need to be reminded of it? Yes, you’ve got something on me now, but let’s not go into whether it would be wise for you to use it, shall we? You want me to buy back that bit of leather? Then say so! Stop laughing and leering at me like that. You want money. How much?’

His tone was so resolute that Protos stepped back, but recovered.

‘Easy, easy!’ he said. ‘What was unfair about what I just said? We’re talking as friends here, calmly. It’s nothing to get worked up about. You know, you’re even younger than you were, Cadio!’

He stroked Lafcadio’s arm in a conciliatory gesture. Lafcadio pulled away with a jerk.

‘Let’s sit down,’ Protos went on. ‘It’ll be more comfortable to talk.’

He settled himself in a seat next to the door into the corridor and put his feet up on the seat opposite.

Lafcadio decided that he was intending to bar the exit. Protos was no doubt armed. He himself was not carrying a weapon. He reflected that, if it came to a struggle, he would come off worse. At the same time, if he had considered for a moment trying to escape, his curiosity had already got the better of him – that passionate curiosity over which nothing else, not even his own safety, had ever been able to prevail. He too sat down.

‘Money? Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ Protos said. He took a cigar from his cigar case and offered one to Lafcadio, who shook his head. ‘The smoke bothers you? … All right, hear me out.’

He took several puffs from his cigar, then said calmly, ‘No, Lafcadio, my friend, no. It’s not money I’m expecting from you, but compliance. Because, my boy, you don’t seem – and you’ll excuse my frankness – to realise exactly what your situation is. You need to face up to it, and boldly. Allow me to help you.

‘So, a youth wanted to break out of that social fabric that constrains us. A likeable youth – indeed one very much after my own heart – artless and appealingly spontaneous – because he didn’t, I presume, think it necessary to do it in a very scheming fashion … Cadio, I remember how hot you once were with numbers, but that where your own expenses were concerned you always refused to count the cost.

‘In short, the mossbacks’ world disgusted you. Surprise, surprise … But what does surprise me is that intelligent as you are, Cadio, you should have believed that you could distance yourself from a society just like that, without walking straight into another one, or that any society can do without a set of laws.

‘“Lawless” – do you remember? We read that somewhere:

What a beautiful thing literature is! Lafcadio, my friend, learn the law of the subtle!’

‘You could oblige me and get on with it.’

‘What’s the hurry? We’ve plenty of time. I’m only getting off at Rome. Lafcadio, my friend, it does happen that a crime gets past the police, and I shall tell you why: we are cleverer than they are, because our lives are on the line. Where the police fail, we sometimes succeed. Good God, Lafcadio, that’s what you wanted, and now the thing’s done and you can’t get away from it. I should prefer you to comply with my instructions, because quite frankly I should be very sorry indeed to have to hand over an old friend like you to the police. But what can be done? From now on you’re either in their hands – or ours.’

‘To hand me over would mean handing yourself over too …’

‘I had hoped we were talking seriously. So try to take this in, Lafcadio: the police lock up those who transgress, but in Italy they’re happy to come to an understanding with the subtle. “Come to an understanding” – I believe that’s the phrase. There’s something of the police in me, my boy. I’ve got an eye for it. I help to keep order. I’m not an actor, I’m a producer – I make others act.

‘Come on, Cadio! Stop fighting it. There’s nothing so terrible about my law. You exaggerate these things to yourself – you’re so naïve, so impetuous! Don’t you see that you’re already falling in with it, snatching Mademoiselle Venitequa’s cufflink off your plate at dinner? You did it because I wanted you to. Aha! An entirely unthinking gesture, an instinctive gesture! Poor Lafcadio! Have you done cursing yourself for that one tiny act yet, eh? The bloody annoying thing of course is that I wasn’t the only one to see it. Pah! Don’t get yourself in a state but the waiter and the widow and the little girl are all in on it. Delightful people! It’s all up to you whether you have them as your friends or not. Lafcadio, my old pal, be sensible. Give in?’

Perhaps out of extreme shamefacedness, Lafcadio had decided to say nothing. He sat stiffly, lips pressed together, eyes staring fixedly ahead. Protos continued with a shrug of his shoulders.

‘Strange fellow! And actually so relaxed! … But perhaps you’d already have acquiesced if I had told you at the outset what we expect from you. Lafcadio, old friend, enlighten me on one point. For you – who, when I left you, were so poor – not to pick up six thousand francs that chance had thrown at your feet, do you think that’s natural? … Monsieur de Baraglioul died, according to what Mademoiselle Venitequa tells me, the day after Count Julius, his noble son, came to visit you, and that same evening you dumped Mademoiselle Venitequa. Since that time your relations with Count Julius have become, and I believe there’s no other word for it, highly intimate. Would you care to explain why? … Lafcadio, old friend, once upon a time your life was filled with numerous uncles. Subsequently your family tree seems to have become more than somewhat embaragliouled … No, no, don’t get cross, I’m only joking. But what is one supposed to think? … Unless, however, you owe your current fortune to Monsieur Julius himself, which, if you don’t mind me saying so, handsome though you are, Lafcadio, would seem distinctly scandalous to me. Anyhow, whatever the real reason, and whatever you would like us to imagine, Lafcadio, old pal, the whole thing is unambiguous to us and your duty is clear: you must blackmail Julius. Don’t get huffy! Blackmail is a virtuous business, necessary for the maintenance of morals. Hey! What? Are you leaving?’

Lafcadio had stood up.

‘Let me get past, won’t you!’ he exclaimed, stepping over Protos’s body. Protos, outstretched legs extended from one side of the compartment to the other, made no move to stop him and Lafcadio, surprised not to find himself restrained in any way, opened the door into the corridor.

Turning to leave, he said, ‘I’m not running away, don’t worry. You’re welcome to keep me under observation. But anything is better than listening to another word from you … Forgive me for preferring the police. Go and let them know. I’ll be waiting.’