Holmes, inevitably, lit a cigarette. But I had got to my feet, perhaps in protest, and found myself walking in the general direction that Inspector Jourdain had gone. I stared down at the pavement, deep in thought, and somehow avoided being run down by motors or trams. Some time later, I became aware that Holmes had spoken. “I’m sorry, Holmes—what was that?”

“I asked if you were intending to lunch?”

I found I had blindly migrated into a patch of shade—namely, a small café with so many umbrellas, its terrace might have been roofed. “It’s early, but why not?”

We ordered something, and eventually I said to Holmes, “Do you think Niko might have had a tattoo done?”

His eyebrow quirked at me, questioning my statement of the obvious. “The mark beneath the sleeve on his right arm? What would that have been, if not a tattoo?”

“I mean the left arm. That swathe of hair missing from his upper forearm. Though the photo only showed the edges of it. Don’t they usually shave off any hair before doing a tattoo?”

He slowly transferred his napkin from table to lap, eyes focused far away.

“You didn’t see it?” He shook his head. “Ah. Never mind. It was probably just a mark on the photograph.”

“Not necessarily. Although I’m not sure what a newly installed tattoo might tell us.”

“I suppose nothing.” But I didn’t think it was just a mark on the print or a fluke of shadow. And if that was the case, then I had noticed something the eyes of Sherlock Holmes hadn’t caught. Triumphs are sweet—even those that mean nothing.

But Holmes was not willing to dismiss it, even as a sign of his failure. “Did the skin look discoloured? Tattoos leave the skin around them irritated and red for a time.”

My turn to look into the distance and think, then shake my head. “I can’t be sure. But any redness would have been minor—or further around the arm.”

“Excellent work, Russell. It could help us narrow down the man’s movements during his final days.”

“Really? I mean, how?”

“There can’t be that many tattoo parlours in Monaco.”

“Are we going to hunt down tattoo parlours?” Meaning, was I going to.

“I rather doubt Jourdain will do so.”

“Well,” I said, “at least the search area is limited.”

“True. Which is why I shall remain in Monaco and follow that scent, while you return to Antibes and see what the Murphy set has to tell you.”

“Really? You don’t want me to hunt down tattoos?”

“Hmm. I suppose in this modern and emancipated era, a young lady might be given entry into such places, but—”

“No, that’s quite all right. You take the tattoos, I’ll take the artists. Shall we meet up at the Hôtel du Cap?”

“As soon as I am free.”

We ate a perfectly decent lunch, then went our separate ways.

I went back to the Hermitage, in part to sort out clothing for the laundry so I did not have to keep buying things, and in part to telephone to Mrs Hudson.

The former I managed without mishap, although I was sorely tempted to exchange the peculiar flowered dress I was wearing for yesterday’s wrinkled garments. The phone call was less successful.

I did reach her, at the home of Lillie Langtry, and I did manage to express my happiness that she had been granted release. But I did not succeed in convincing her to see me.

“Oh, Mary, dear, I’d love to see you, but today will be so filled with lawyers and such like, I shall be terribly distracted. Perhaps tomorrow, or even the next day? Everything should have settled nicely by then.”

Either that, I thought, or Jourdain will have you back in gaol. “Shall I ring at this same number, tomorrow morning?”

“They did tell me to remain with Lillie, although I hate to make demands on a friend’s hospitality. Yes, try here first. If you don’t reach me, I may be back in my own house. Do you have Madame Crovetti’s telephone number? She will bring me a message, if you catch her before half-nine.”

“I have that number, yes. And, Mrs Hudson? I—we—she and I, that is—cleaned your place. You don’t need to worry about going home.”

“Oh, I know dear, I’ve spoken with her. Very kind of you, though I’d have managed.”

“I have no doubt of it. But you, well, you’ve cleaned up so many of our messes over the years, Holmes’ and mine, that I was…well. I am grateful.”

Particularly for that last mess, the blood I had spilled, drying on the floor.

“I know, child. But thank you. I shall see you in a day or two. Give my greetings to Mr Holmes.”

And the connection went dead.

I’m not sure how long I sat, gazing at the expensive boats in the harbour—the white sea-plane was missing, I noticed, and the enormous Bella Ragazza was having its decks scrubbed—before my meditation was broken by a gentle rap on the door, which came open just as I reached for the handle. The cleaning lady retreated immediately, amidst a storm of apologies in French with a Monégasque accent.

“No, come in,” I told her. “I was just leaving.” And to illustrate the fact, I fetched my hat and took a last, despairing, glance at the mirror.

She apologised again for disturbing me, explaining that the desk had seen my husband leave but had failed to notice I was not with him and…

“Absolutely no problem,” I reassured her, and to prove it, went out of the door, amused at this minor breakdown of the great hotel’s communications system. Like a village, where information and mis-information alike spread with ease.

My feet slowed, and stopped. A village. Where everyone knew Lillie Langtry. Might that apply to all of Monaco’s prominent residents? Because sooner or later, either Holmes or I would need to speak with the shark in these waters. The one that Inspector Jourdain was so fervently trying to keep us from.

The one who had known Mrs Hudson since she was a coy young grifter.

I was curious, though I had no wish to come into personal contact with the man. Perhaps a chance meeting, in public, with many witnesses to hand…

It might help to know where the man lived. Not that a hotel that valued the privacy of its clients would permit its desk clerk to hand over an address, but perhaps if I asked a less obvious source of information…

I walked back to the room and stuck my head inside, catching the cleaning woman as she gathered up the ash-trays and waste-baskets. “Sorry, may I ask—do you know Sir Basil Zaharoff? Who he is, I mean?”

“But of course, Madame.”

“Is it possible you know where I can find his offices, or perhaps his home?”

“Oh, Madame, I am sorry, I do not.”

“That’s fine, I’ll ask—”

“But I know where his rooms in the hotel are.”

“He has rooms here?”

“As an office, yes? For when he is doing business, you know?”

“I see.”

“Shall I take you?”

“Heavens no, I wouldn’t dream of interrupting your work. But, perhaps the room number…?”

To my astonishment, she was so flustered—either by her own gaffe at intruding upon me or by the unheard-of respect shown her work by a guest (or perhaps by the disarming floral print I wore) that she recited it. Taking care to show nothing on my face but vague appreciation, I nodded and closed the door on her dawning expression of horror—her realisation that she might have put a foot wrong.

At the end of the hallway, I heard the door come open, so I took the downward stairs, to set the poor woman’s mind at rest. I paused on the landing for a count of ten before turning around, going all the way to the top floor.

Zaharoff’s office suite was at the end of the hallway. It seemed to be cleaning time here as well, since the door was standing open and I could hear voices from within. I rapped at the door, then stepped inside to ask the cleaners if they knew when his secretary might be—

No cleaners. And not an office, really, but a luxurious suite of rooms, so high over the harbour that it was on a level with the Palace itself. This room was dominated by an enormous walnut desk and decorative touches that had to be personal—a sumptuous carpet on the floor, an Ottoman scimitar on the wall, a Fabergé egg on the desk.

And behind the desk, not a secretary, but the rotund, elderly man I’d glimpsed in the Casino on Saturday night: pale eyes, white moustache, pointed goatee. The Merchant of Death himself, Europe’s Man of Mystery, the richest monster in Europe, ran a piercing gaze over my person from hat to shoes. Unfortunately, my frock had no effect, because he reached down into the desk and came up with a gun.

Why had I not considered the possibility that an arms dealer might wield an actual weapon?