"No, he doesn't. He doesn't know anything about us, except that we're friends of Margarete. And that doesn't prevent us having him, does it?"

Wilhelm Franz-Ruller cleared his throat. "You seem to be quarrelling." He took out his cigarette case. "Do you smoke?"

The red-head took two and handed one to the blonde. "Thank you. No, we're not quarrelling. We're just having a difference of opinion."

He produced his lighter. His eyes were on her jacket as he lit her cigarette. She passed it to the blonde and took back the unlighted cigarette. She tent her head again to light the second cigarette. "That's a very beautiful coat," he said.

"Thank you," she said, and smiled suddenly. "But I wonder why you say so. There's nothing very special about it. It's just a leather jacket."

"It's a very beautiful one," he said. He wished he could run his hand over its surface.

She stared quizzically at him. Then, slowly and deliberately, she put her hands flat upon the surface of the jacket above her breasts. She let them remain there for a moment and then she drew them downwards towards her stomach. "If you don't look where you're going," she said, "we're going to have a nasty accident." His eyes had been fixed upon her for some seconds.

He jerked his head back to the road.

"Fortunately," she said, "it's a fairly empty road. But you must keep your on eyes on it-and not on my jacket." She paused for a moment. "Have you a fetish for leather?"

He seemed to swallow. "A fetish for leather? No, of course not. What do you mean?"

She chuckled, and turned her head to the blonde. "All right," she said, in Swedish. "I'm with you, you nymph! Let's have him, and to hell with everything else."

"I was hoping you'd see reason," said the blonde coolly. "But I don't understand why you change your mind just because he's got a fetish for leather."