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Purvis said, returning.
    “About what?”
    “Didn’t say, Mr. Congreve. Only that it was a matter of some urgency.”
    “Good lord, is there no escape?” Congreve said, getting to his feet and zipping up the wool jumper he’d slipped into against the early morning chill. “Tell them I’ll be right there, Mrs. Purvis. Invite them inside, offer tea, but keep an eye on them. And see if you can call off the dog, please. It wouldn’t do to have him bite a policeman.”
    “Policemen? How’d you come by that?”
    “I may have mentioned that I am a detective, Mrs. Purvis. It’s my nature to take a mystery and bend it to my will.”
    “But—”
    “Men in pairs, Mrs. Purvis, are always coppers.”
    “Or they may be a nice gay couple, mayn’t they be, Mr. Congreve?” she said, with a twinkle of her blue eyes.

Chapter Three
Cannes
    TONIGHT, THE TRAFFIC ALONG LE CROISETTE, THAT BROAD, palm-lined boulevard that hugs the shoreline of this normally glittering village, was minimal. It was fiendishly cold. A few desultory black Mercedes taxis cruised the big hotels and, now and then, a startlingly red Ferrari or chrome-yellow Lamborghini with inscrutable Arabic license tags would roar up under the porte-cochere of the Majestic or the Hotel Carlton and disgorge a leggy blonde just down from Paris to visit her “sick uncle.”
    Thing about all these bloody sick uncles, Hawke had noticed on prior occasions, was that they seldom if ever emerged from their shuttered lairs to take the air. So, what on earth did they do in there with those leggy nieces all day?
    At just after ten that evening, a Friday night in early May, in a gilded grey-and-white bedroom at the Hotel Carlton, Alexander Hawke, recently arrived, and a woman, recently encountered, were making noisy love, thrashing about on an ornate and very rumpled bed. Kissing the woman hard on the lips, he stole a glance at the faintly glowing blue dial on his wrist. The dive watch confirmed the atomic clock in his head, an internal biological device that was usually accurate to within one minute.
    Yes. Time to get a move on.
    “Du vent,” the woman murmured, pausing in her own fluid rhythms to gaze at the louvered shutters banging violently against the French doors of the terrace. The howling cold wind had to be gusting upward of thirty knots.
    “Yes,” he said, gently stroking her cheek. “What about it?”
    “C’est terrible, eh?”
    “Hmm,” Hawke said, a bit preoccupied at the moment.
    Hawke’s back arched involuntarily. A cry escaped his lips. She was still breathing hard, sitting astride him, and he admired her strong ivory profile in silhouette. She was naked save for the black sable stole draped over her shoulders, loosely fastened at the neck with a diamond brooch, probably an old Van Cleef by the look of the setting. Beads of sweat formed a rivulet between the hills of her dark-tipped breasts and there was a light sheen of moisture on her high forehead.
    She was strikingly beautiful. Astonishingly so. Her name, Commander Hawke had only recently discovered, was Jet. She was, apparently, a celebrity sufficiently famous to have but a single name. A film star of some magnitude in China. Hawke, who favored the luminous black-and-white motion pictures made on Hollywood back lots or at Shepperton Studios before and during the war, had never seen one of her films. Nor did he care to. His idea of a one-name star was Bogart.
    In fact, beyond her dark eyes, her red lips, the soft contours of her body, and the confines of this vast bed, there was very little he did know about the woman.
    They had met that very afternoon at a posh luncheon at the Hotel du Cap over at Antibes. A German tycoon named Augustus von Draxis had hosted the affair (held on the green lawns beneath the pines of his pale blue Villa Felix), and he had graciously ferried a few guests over from the Carlton pier aboard his sleek Riva launch. As it happened, Hawke and the woman were seated together in