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exhaust fumes, the alleyway opened into a little oasis.
    The small Catholic chapel had a tiny graveyard and was enveloped on all sides by taller buildings. By the main arched door was a wooden bench, spattered with pigeon crap, on which sat a lanky German eating bread and cheese.
    If he’d kept his head down Marc and Henderson might not have noticed, but the German was full of his own pomposity. He stood up, shouting an indignant, ‘My god!’
    They couldn’t afford a noisy and protracted chase. Henderson thought about getting close and delivering a choke hold or knockout punch, but the German was going for his gun.
    As Henderson reached towards his leather holster, Marc unsheathed his hunting-knife. In a single smooth movement the knife went from pocket to hand, then rotated through the air. It hit the German in the chest, puncturing his chest, just below the heart.
    Henderson was stunned. The German had the gun in his shooting hand, but could raise it no higher as blood flooded his left lung and dribbled over his lower lip.
    Marc closed in to finish the German off, but he’d already done enough. Henderson ran up to the chapel doors. He’d hoped to be able to drag the body inside, but three curious, smoking washerwomen turned towards him.
    ‘Afternoon, ladies,’ Henderson said smoothly. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb your break.’
    He closed the door before the women had a chance to see what was going on outside. The German was flat out in the gravel, giving his last twitch.
    ‘I thought the knife would be quieter than the gun,’ Marc said, as he looked down and saw that he’d stepped in blood. ‘Aww, shit.’
    Henderson sensed unease in Marc’s voice. ‘You did what you’ve been trained to do,’ he said. ‘Who knows who’d have turned up by now if they’d heard a gunshot? Grab his legs.’
    A dilapidated building alongside the chapel had a narrow gully, leading down to its basement. The German plunged down, clattering into bottles and disturbing a giant rat that bolted through the gap in a boarded-up window.
    There was a small but noticeable pool of blood in the gravel. Henderson tossed the German’s lunch away, then kicked the gravel about to disguise the blood. It wouldn’t stand up to forensic investigation, but it wasn’t obvious if you just passed by.
    At the same time, Marc wiped his bloody feet on the grass. The blood was sticky and had mixed with the dirt from the alleyway to form a black tarry substance that wasn’t going anywhere.
    Henderson tugged Marc’s shirt sleeve. ‘We need to move before we’re seen. We’ll clean you up when we get to the club.’
    Marc trembled as they started a brisk walk.
    ‘I had no idea you were so handy with the knife,’ Henderson said, as they walked fast.
    ‘It was almost automatic,’ Marc said. ‘I’ve done knife drill every day since December. Once hit a bunny between the eyes from twenty metres on campus.’
    ‘The rocket will go up when they find a dead German,’ Henderson said. ‘So let’s hope nobody looks too hard until we’re back on a boat.’
    They broke out into bright sunshine and saw the entrance to Le Chat Botté across a broad avenue lined with street cafés, bars and clubs.

CHAPTER FIVE
    Le Chat Botté had wrought-iron tables, chessboard-tiled floor and red velvet booths. The walls were hung with photographs of famous singers and actors, but the mirrored stage only ever hosted strippers, with space for a two-piece band at the side. Out back were a dozen small bedrooms where Madame Mercier’s girls plied their trade.
    At night the club would heave with randy Germans, but right now it was empty. Lunch was brought down from the busy café upstairs. Soup to start, followed by smoked fish with potatoes and apple tart. Marc bolted down his first decent meal in four days while his feet soaked under the table in steaming heavily perfumed water.
    Henderson ate more slowly, sipping a glass of red and talking to a young but