“And so,” Benjamin Ruby suggested, “she said you could show it to her.”

“This is right. This morning. I think she was sorry I was so wet.”

“And have you shown it to her?” asked Mr. Reece. “Apart from throwing it all over the carpet?”

“No. I was just going to when the waiter came up with this morning’s papers and — she saw that thing. And then you came. I suppose I’d better go.”

“It’s hardly the moment perhaps—” Mr. Reece began when the bedroom door opened and an elderly woman with ferociously black hair came into the room. She held up a finger at Rupert, rather in the manner of summoning a waiter.

“She wanta you,” said the woman. “Also the music.”

“All right, Maria,” said Mr. Ruby, and to the young man, “Maria is Madame’s dresser. You’d better go.”

So Rupert, whose surname was Bartholomew, clutching his opera, walked into La Sommita’s bedroom like a fly, if he’d only known it, into a one-way web.

“She’ll eat that kid,” Mr. Ruby said dispassionately, “in one meal.”

“Halfway down her throat already,” her protector agreed.

ii

“I’ve wanted to paint that woman,” said Troy Alleyn, “for five years. And now look!”

She pushed the letter across the breakfast table. Her husband read it and raised an eyebrow. “Remarkable,” he said.

“I know. Especially the bit about you. What does it say, exactly? I was too excited to take it all in. Who’s the letter from, actually? Not from her, you’ll notice.“

“It’s from Montague Reece, no less.”

“Why ‘no less’? Who’s Montague Reece?”

“I wish,” said Alleyn, “he could hear you ask.”