When he went out into the street, on such mornings that came hot with the dawn, a solitary taste of coffee lingering on his lips and no woman waving him farewell, no magnet drawing him into the future, the Count wondered what could be the latest incentive impelling him punctually to set his watch and alarm, given that time was the most objective manifestation of his void. And as he could find none – a sense of duty? responsibility? need to earn a living? movement by inertia? – he wondered yet again what the hell he was doing there, heading for a bus queue more crowded and violent by the day, smoking a cigarette that rotted his guts, seeing people who were less and less familiar, suffering a heat that got hotter by the minute, and he told himself it was his fast lane to hell. Then he touched his belt and realized, once again, that he’d left his pistol at home. He asked who was the last in the queue and lit his third cigarette of the day. If I’m going to die anyway…

“Major Rangel wants to see you.”

And, with that declaration from the duty officer, the Count resurrected at least one lost expectation: yes, perhaps he might now down a good cup of coffee, purge the sweet, stewed taste of the brown liquid sloshing with unidentifiable particles he’d drunk in the shabby cafe where he’d stopped before reaching Headquarters. He took one look at the queue by the lift and made for the stairs. He couldn’t imagine why the Boss wanted to see him, but his nasal memory was already enjoying the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, served in the shiny white cups his chief was so fond of. Three months ago, after his public punch-up with Lieutenant Fabricio, the Count had been tried by the Disciplinary Tribunal and sentenced to six months of card-filling and telex-sending in the Information Bureau, until his case was reviewed and a decision taken that he could return to his detective work. He’d avoided meeting up with the Boss ever since: the Count’s sentence was, as far the Major was concerned, a judgement against himself.