‘Emily,’ he whispered, ‘my darling-’

She buried her face low in his chest, saying not a word, and as he stroked her shining hair, the sounds of a brass gong from within, once, twice, three times, brought them back to themselves, their separateness, and the stone terrace, and the night’s chill.

The butler’s voice in the living-room followed the echoes of the gong. ‘Dinner is served… dinner is served.’

Emily pushed free of Craig. ‘They’ll be looking for us,’ she said.

He caught her arm. ‘No, Emily, wait-’

‘We must,’ she said, and she went inside.

For a few seconds, Craig remained stationary, unconscious of the weather, still savouring her lips and the compliance of her body and their intimacy. At last, eager to lead her in to dinner beside him, he went through the French door.

He saw at once that most of the guests had disappeared. Four couples were still in line, in the regulation Swedish manner, ladies to the right and their gentlemen partners to the left.

He was surprised that Emily had not waited for him. Perhaps, he told himself, she had not seen the revised seating-plan.

Since he was tardy, he decided to take a short Scotch in to dinner. Ordering it, his gaze fell on the placard marked Placering, and then what held him-unless it was a trick of vision-were two blotches. Perhaps his erasures were clumsy, he thought.

He made his way to the chart to enjoy again his arrangement: Emily Stratman, Andrew Craig, Margherita Farelli.

The blotches he had observed were real, but they were not from his erasures. Firm new erasures were on either side of his name.

Emily Stratman was no more. In her place was written the name of Leah Decker. The return of Leah Decker, neatly written in a hand he recognized as the familiar hand of Leah Decker. Craig’s own name remained untouched, unchanged. But like Emily, his other partner had disappeared also. Margherita Farelli was gone, and in her place, in an unfamiliar hand, but in a hand distinctively feminine, was pencilled the name of Märta Norberg.

‘Here you are, Mr. Craig.’

He turned to find Märta Norberg smiling at him. ‘You see what we think of you? You are the partner of the hostess. You are to be at my left. Ragnar is about to make his speech of welcome. Will you take me in?’

IN the centre of the Old Town of Stockholm there exists one of the architectural curiosities of the city and among the foremost of its tourist attractions. This is Mårten Trotzig’s Lane, an official street no more than three feet wide. The lane is not level, but consists of worn stone stairs that descend steeply, between the caked walls of old buildings, beneath two wrought-iron public lamps, into Västerlånggatan.

Mårten Trotzig’s Lane was both Nicholas Daranyi’s cross and vanity. His ground-floor, three-room apartment was located flush with the thoroughfare of Våsterlånggatan, and only a few buildings down from the lane. The disadvantage of this was that being on the street, so close to traffic, so near a guide-book site, made quiet and peace almost impossible for Daranyi to achieve. In summer and winter alike, the bands of tourists were chattering magpies beneath his window, running to and from the lane, constantly vocal-in English, in German, in Danish-in praise of its oddity. Daranyi liked to read and contemplate what he read, and meditate on things he had seen and things he had done in his wandering life, but the location of his apartment made such monastic retreat impossible.

Yet, for almost no money on earth would Daranyi have surrendered his apartment and lived in a more modern and tranquil one in the new city. Even though his apartment’s situation had its shortcomings, and even though the rent was slightly beyond his means (which meant skimping on other necessities, here and there), Daranyi treasured it for its address. This was snobbery, and he knew it, and did not mind, for such superficialities were of importance to him. His apartment was in one of the most respected and desirable sections of the city, and one of the most ancient, and for a stateless man who had lived from hand to mouth so long, it was worth anything to have the dignity and rooted tradition of such an address.

The best times in all the year were the dark early mornings of winter and the dark long nights of winter. Then the tourists did not come, and few trod the steps of Mårten Trotzig’s Lane, and Daranyi had his address and peace as well.

Now it was Daranyi’s favourite time, the dark early morning of December seventh-8.15 in the morning-with the air in the streets like the wall of an iceberg. Occasionally, snowflakes flurried and swirled and briefly hung suspended in the frozen air, before slowly parachuting to the pavement. It was a morning to be off the streets, to be snug and comfortable in a heated apartment, and Daranyi was, indeed, snug and comfortable in his heated apartment, and convinced that he was one of God’s favoured souls. However, what made his bliss complete was not warmth and roof alone, but an added security that was man-made the immediate prospect of considerable income.

Daranyi was proud to have so distinguished a figure as Dr. Carl Adolf Krantz call upon him at this address, seek him out with restrained urgency, partake of his hospitality-the brown leather chair, antique table from Bukowski, steaming coffee, buttered rolls-as Krantz was now doing, and offer, by his very presence, the promise of money in a period of financial drought. Krantz’s visits to this address were infrequent, but always welcome, for they were never merely social or frivolous. When Krantz appeared, cash was not far behind. True, during his cryptic call to Daranyi shortly after his return home late last night, and during the first ten minutes since his arriving this morning, Krantz had not spoken one word of an assignment, but Daranyi knew, felt it beneath the layers of flesh, perceived it in his bones.

Determined to show his occasional employer that he had no anxiety, anticipated nothing but a friendly call, Daranyi squatted on his chair across from Krantz, and blew on his coffee, and listened to banal comments on world events, and waited. Presently, Krantz ceased the irrelevant conversation, and devoted himself to the rolls and coffee, and they both had their breakfasts in silence. With this, from previous observation of Krantz’s behaviour pattern, Daranyi understood that the waiting game would soon be over. Shortly, there would be a few indirect questions, the tentative posing of an idea that wanted looking into, direct questions, then orders.

Krantz’s empty cup clattered to his saucer, and Daranyi started to rise to bring the bamboo-handled pot, but Krantz’s lifted hand stayed him in his place.

‘Never mind, I have had enough,’ said Krantz. Genteelly he patted his moustache and goatee with his napkin, then took a metal puzzle out of his pocket, swinging it, and finally letting his short fingers twist and untwist it. ‘Tell me, Daranyi, what have you been up to these days? Have you been behaving yourself?’

‘At my age, Dr. Krantz? I practise celibacy, and good eating three times a day. Food and first editions, those are my excesses.’

‘Are you busy?’

Daranyi swiftly weighed his answer: very-busy implied unavailability and might scare the customer off; not-at-all-busy implied undesirability and might make the customer a stiff bargainer. ‘Moderately, moderately busy,’ said Daranyi. ‘There is always something going on, you know.’

Daranyi weighed elaboration: if he was not specific, the customer would think he was lying; if he was too specific, the customer would know he could not be trusted. ‘I am concluding two industrial accounts-of course, Dr. Krantz, I am not at liberty to divulge-’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Krantz impatiently. ‘I will tell you why I am here-I have an idea. A minor matter has come up-something of concern to me-and I would need some-some intelligent, discriminating research. I could think of only you, Daranyi. The question is-your immediate availability. Would you be able to put your other work aside, at once, to undertake a short, intensive investigation? Be truthful, Daranyi. We know each other. We are old friends. I would have to have your complete dedication, your full co-operation. I could not have you being diverted by any other project. You know my requirements-thoroughness, promptness, prudence. What do you say to that, Daranyi?’