I’d walked into the hotel room expecting an office, with secretary and appointment books. Beyond that, I suppose I had blithely assumed that any businessman who dealt in deadly munitions was only dangerous when it came to his wares on a battlefield. But of course a person like this would have a gun to hand—and not one of his flawed, liable-to-fail designs, but the sleekest, most modern of automatic pistols.

Pointed at me. Directly at me. So close, a child could not miss—and why should a man with so much blood on his hands even hesitate? He couldn’t know who I was—could have no idea that pulling the trigger would summon the wrath of not only Sherlock Holmes but British Intelligence as well, and though yes, it would be nice to have a bullet to match with the one taken from Niko Cassavetes, I’d rather it not be me who had to bleed onto that beautiful carpet beneath my—

Oh, for God’s sake, Russell, do something.

I cleared my throat and forced myself to look away from the gun, meeting his intense blue eyes and trying to piece together a smile. “I wonder if we might have a little talk? Preferably before you shoot me.”

A man’s voice came from the adjoining room, speaking Russian. Zaharoff said something in reply, and the man entered, moving fast. He was big and scarred and heavily muscled, a man I knew was a bodyguard even before I saw the gun inside his coat, but Zaharoff waved him off before he could tackle me to the ground. The old man made an irritated gesture at the open door behind me and snapped out a command. Flushing, the bodyguard stalked past me into the hallway. I did not hear the door close.

“Sir Basil Zaharoff?” I asked, although the honorific rather stuck in my throat.

“Who are you?” His English was only lightly accented.

“My name is Mary Russell. I’m a friend of Clara Hudson.”

“Who?”

“Clara—Clarissa Hudson? You had dinner with her, the other night? At the house of Lillie Langtry?” Why did all my statements insist on coming out as questions?

“Yes. Pleasant woman.” He made it sound like a category: old man; young girl; pleasant woman; loathsome, double-dealing, bigamistic seller of second-rate guns—again, I wrenched my thoughts back into line.

“Indeed, she said it was a good evening. However, I’m not sure if you know that there was an…accident at her home, that same evening. A young man died?”

The terrifying eyes gleamed at me like something out of the woods at dusk—and then, as abruptly as a switch being flipped, they changed. The skin beside the eyes crinkled, the moustache twitched, the old man’s posture slumped, sweeping away all traces of menace. I was looking across the desk at a genial grandfather. Who now glanced down at the gun in his hand and put it cautiously away, sliding the drawer shut as if to keep the weapon from leaping out.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know why you alarmed me,” he said. “Most ill-mannered of me. My dear, what can I do for you?”

The transformation was breath-taking—and I speak as a person whose husband can adopt new personas at the drop of a hat. “I, er, yes, I apologise for intruding. I just, the cl—” I caught myself before I could reveal the source of betrayal, and changed it to: “a clerk I talked to recently mentioned that you had a suite of rooms in this hotel, and I figured they’d be on the top floor, so I thought I’d come and see if I could make an appointment. Or something.”

He thought for a moment, then put on a good-natured smile. “Well, you seem to have found me. I’m very glad I didn’t accidentally shoot you. Although I imagine Feodor took the bullets out, he generally does. Feodor is my secretary.”

The presence of his “secretary” behind me made the skin of my back constrict, but I made an effort and did not turn around.

I did not think that gun was empty. I did not imagine any servant of this man would dare to disable his weapon.

Still, two could don a mask of charm. And I did have the frock and spectacles going for me. “I quite understand, these are hazardous times.” I dredged up another smile. “I wouldn’t think of bothering you, were it not for Miss Hudson’s troubles. The police actually imagined that she was responsible. That she shot him. Can you believe it?”

“Young lady, I can’t see that this is anything to do with me.”

Friendly or not, it was interesting that his first reaction was denial. Or perhaps that was merely habit. “It isn’t, I suppose. But the police want to know where she was when he died. So I thought I might just clear things up by asking you: she was at Mrs Langtry’s until you and Count Vasilev left, wasn’t she?”

“Miss Russell—is it Miss?”

“Mrs, in fact.”

“Mrs Russell, I have no idea how long Clarissa stayed, after the Count and I left. She and Lillie are old friends, and the ladies do like to gossip. However, shouldn’t the police be asking these questions?” His dismissive tone suggested how very unlikely a police interview of Basil Zaharoff would be.

“They should be, yes. But I believe they’re rather afraid of you, sir.”

For the first time, the old man looked at me rather than at the problem I might represent, studying me with as much attention as I’d ever seen Holmes give a problem. At the end of the examination, he startled me for the third time in as many minutes. He smiled.

This smile was genuine. Warm, amused, and personal. He dropped into the chair behind the desk, and gestured me towards the unoccupied one. I obeyed, perching on the very edge of the seat.

“A police inspector is afraid, and yet a young woman is not?” I had not mentioned Jourdain’s rank, but then, a man like this would know everything that went on in the Principality. He might even know the true identities of Mr and Mrs Sheldon Russell.

I chose my words with care. “I think you are a businessman. I think you have spent your life balancing profit against risk, and that you tend not to act rashly. I think you would not choose to…act against a young English woman who comes to you with questions. I think you would find it simpler to give her answers, and not threats.”

He sat back, threading his fingers together over his paunch, eyes sparkling. “Ask.”

“Thank you. As I said, Miss Hudson is a friend. I need to know how much trouble she’s in, before I can continue with my travel plans.” Which was nonsense, but I wore a face—and a dress—for innocence.

“I, too, regard Clarissa Hudson as a friend,” said the old monster. “I have known her since we were young and carefree, although I have only seen her a handful of times since she arrived in Monaco, some weeks ago.”

“I think you also knew the man? Niko Cassavetes?”

His Father Christmas veneer went thin for an instant, then returned full strength. But not from surprise. Anger? “Is that who died? The Cassavetes boy?”

“You knew him?”

“I knew of him. I may even have come across him, once or twice. He did some small jobs for one of my friends, nothing too demanding. Mostly filling in for others.”

Smokescreens require large quantities of smoke: the longer the explanation—such as this one—the greater the deceit.

“Jobs on boats?” To actually use the word “smuggling” might be pushing my luck.

“So I understand.”

“Could I talk to this friend of yours who employed him?”

“How would that help Miss Hudson?”

“Certain…elements of Niko’s life appear to be less than legal,” I said. “If he had an argument with some criminal associate, it could remove Miss Hudson from suspicion.”

The old eyebrows rose. “Are you suggesting that my friend knowingly employed a criminal? Or perhaps you suggest that I killed the boy myself?”

The edge in his voice made my organs cramp. “Sir, I doubt there’s a man in Monaco less likely to shoot Niko Cassavetes dead than you.” With his own hand, that is.

“I am relieved you think so,” he said, the jolly old elf. “Now, young lady, amusing as this has been, I have a busy day.”

I forced a last question out of my tight throat. “Niko did some work for you, too, didn’t he? He seemed to work for pretty much everyone in Monaco, at one time or another.”

“This and that. But not in a while, and nothing illegal.” He made a show of getting laboriously to his feet. “Do I need to have Feodor show you the door?”

Hearing his name, the hired brute looked inside. For a moment, I was tempted to see whether his muscles, or my skills would win out—but that would involve a lot of smashed furniture and yet another set of clothing, so I thanked the monster politely and with a final glance out at the spectacular view this man all but owned—harbour, Palace, town, and the Mediterranean beyond—I straightened my shoulders and took my flowered artificial silk out of the luxurious suite, down the stairs, and out of the hotel itself.

I managed not to break into a run, or even turn to see who was following me, all the way to the train station at the foot of the Casino.

But I can’t say I took an easy breath until the train doors rattled shut. When the cars jerked into motion at last, I eased my head back against the rest and waited for my racing heart to slow.