Julia, who had listened without moving a muscle, shuddered. Everything fit perfectly, like the pieces of some incredible jigsaw puzzle. Cesar had left no loose ends. She gave him a long look, and walked about the room, trying to take it in. It was too much for one night, she thought as she stopped in front of Munoz, who was watching her impassively. It was perhaps too much even for one lifetime.

“I see,” she said, turning back to Cesar, “that you’ve thought of everything. Or almost everything. Have you also considered Don Manuel Belmonte? You may think it a trifling detail, but he is the owner of the painting.”

“I have considered that. Needless to say, you could always suffer a praiseworthy crisis of conscience and decide not to accept my plan. In that case, you have only to inform Ziegler and the painting will turn up in some suitable place. It will upset Montegrifo but he’ll just have to put up with it. Then, everything will remain as before: the scandal will have increased the painting’s value, and Claymore’s will retain the right to auction it. But should you take the sensible path, there are plenty of arguments to salve your conscience: Belmonte gets rid of the painting for money, so, once you’ve excluded the painting’s sentimental value, there remains its economic worth. And that’s covered by the insurance. Besides, there’s nothing to stop you from anonymously donating whatever compensation you consider appropriate. You’ll have more than enough money to do so. As for Munoz…”

“Yes,” said Munoz, “I’m curious to know what you have in store for me.

Cesar gave him a wry look.

“You, my dear, have won the lottery.”

“You don’t say.”

“Oh, but I do. Foreseeing that the second white knight would survive the game, I took the liberty of linking you, on paper, with the company, with twenty-five per cent of the shares, which will, amongst other things, permit you to buy yourself some new shirts and to play chess in the Bahamas if you fancy it.”

Munoz raised a hand to his mouth and what remained of his cigarette. He looked at it briefly and very deliberately dropped it on the carpet.

“That’s very generous of you,” he said.

Cesar looked at the dead stub on the floor and then at Munoz.

“It’s the least I can do. I have to buy your silence in some way, and, besides, you’ve more than earned it. Let’s just say it’s my way of making up for the nasty trick I played on you with the computer.”

“Has it occurred to you that I might refuse to participate in all this?”

“Of course. You are, after all, an odd sort. But that’s not my affair any more. You and Julia are now associates, so you can sort it out between you. I have other things to think about.”

“That leaves you, Cesar,” said Julia.

“Me?” He smiled – painfully, Julia thought. “My dear Princess, I have many sins to purge and little time to do it in.” He indicated the sealed envelope on the table. “There you have a detailed confession, explaining the whole story from start to finish, apart, of course, from our Swiss arrangement. You, Munoz and, for the moment, Montegrifo, come out of it clean. As for the painting, I explain its destruction in great detail, along with the personal and sentimental reasons that drove me to it. I’m sure that after a learned examination of my confession, the police psychiatrists will happily label me a dangerous schizophrenic.”

“Do you intend going abroad?”

“Certainly not. The only thing that makes having a place to go to desirable is that it gives you an excuse to make a journey. But I’m too old for that. On the other hand, I don’t much fancy prison or a lunatic asylum. It must be rather awkward with all those well-built, attractive nurses giving you cold showers. I’m afraid not, my dear. I’m fifty years old and no longer up to such excitement. Besides, there is one other tiny detail.”

Julia looked at him gravely.

“What’s that?”

“Have you heard” – Cesar gave an ironic smile – “of something called acquired something or other syndrome, which seems to be horribly fashionable these days? Well, I am a terminal case. Or so they say.”

“You’re lying.”

“Not at all. That’s what they called it: terminal, like some gloomy Underground station.”

Julia closed her eyes. Everything around her seemed to fade away, and in her mind all that remained was a dull, muffled sound, like that of a stone falling into a pool. When she opened them again, her eyes were full of tears.

“You’re lying, Cesar. Not you. Tell me you’re lying.”

“I’d love to, Princess. I assure you I’d like nothing better than to tell you that it’s all been a joke in the worst possible taste. But life is quite capable of playing such tricks on one.”

“How long have you known?”

Cesar brushed the question aside with a languid gesture of his hand, as if time had ceased to matter to him.

“Two months, more or less,” he said. “It began with the appearance of a small tumour in my rectum. Rather unpleasant.”

“You never said anything to me.”

“Why should I have? If you’ll forgive the indelicacy, my dear, I’ve always felt my rectum was strictly my business.”

“How much longer have you got?”

“Not much. Six or seven months, I think. And they say the weight simply falls off you.”

“They’ll send you to a hospital then. You won’t go to prison. Nor even to a lunatic asylum, as you put it.”

Cesar shook his head calmly.

“I won’t go to any of those places, my dear. Can you imagine anything more horrible when dying of something so vulgar? Oh, no. Definitely not. I refuse. I at least claim the right to give my exit a personal touch. It must be dreadful to take with you as your last image of this world an intravenous drip hanging over your head, with your visitors tripping over your oxygen tank.” He looked at the furniture, the tapestries and the paintings in the room. “I prefer to give myself a Florentine death, amongst all the objects that I love. A discreet, gentle exit is better suited to my tastes and my character.”

“When?”

“In a while. Whenever you two are kind enough to leave me alone.”

Munoz was waiting in the street, leaning against the wall with his raincoat collar turned up. He seemed absorbed in secret thoughts, and when Julia appeared at the door and came over to him, he didn’t at first look up.

“How’s he going to do it?” he asked.

“Prussic acid. He’s got a flask of it that he’s had for ages.” She smiled bitterly. “He says a bullet would be more heroic, but it would leave him with an unpleasantly surprised look on his face. He prefers to the looking his best.”

“I understand.”

“There’s a telephone box near here, around the corner.” She looked at Munoz absently. “He asked us to give him ten minutes before calling the police.”

They set off along the pavement side by side, beneath the yellow light of the street lamps. At the end of the deserted street, the traffic lights were changing from green to amber to red. The light illuminated Julia’s face, marking it with deep, fantastic shadows.

“What do you think you’ll do now?” asked Munoz. He spoke without looking at her, keeping his gaze fixed on the ground ahead of him. She shrugged.

“That depends on you.”

Then Julia heard Munoz laugh. It was a profound, gentle laugh, slightly nasal, that seemed to bubble up from deep inside him. For a fraction of a second, she had the impression that it was one of the characters in the painting, and not Munoz, who was laughing at her side.

“Your friend Cesar is right,” Munoz said. “I do need some new shirts.”

Julia ran her fingers over the three porcelain figurines – Octavio, Lucinda and Scaramouche – that she was carrying in her raincoat pocket, along with the sealed envelope. The cold night air dried her lips and froze the tears in her eyes.

“Did he say anything else before you left him alone?” asked Munoz.