Hammerhead [antikvár]

The light in the entrance of the apartment was sub-dued. When the servant opened the door to the landings thedark oblong cut against the bright light beyond.Charles Hood tied his white silk scarf. To complete theeffect, the servant should now say: There's a trace of fog,sir/ But the man didn't. He was Haitian and this was Paris,a city of other moods.The servant stood holding the door open. Hood gave him asmile. 'Goodnight/ he said and went out.Softly the door of the apartment shut behind him. Hoodreflected that Espiritu Lobar, whose, flat he had just left,certainly owned some superb things. But then he had themeans. Hood had called, knowing Lobar was away, be-cause he had wanted to look at Lobar's pictures, amongother things. Rich men were constantly buying the wrongpictures.His steps were soundless on the white carpet as he crossedto the lift. A glowing ruby showed that it was in use. Hewaited. The trace of a woman's scent drifted to him. L'heurebleue, by Guerlain. Hood hummed a line of 'My HeartBelongs to Daddy' which had been the tune of a lovelyGuerlain girl he had loved once.The lift appeared from below and glided past to a floorabove. The place was very quiet. True, this was a million-aire's block. But the roar of the Paris evening traffic outsidewas efficiently stifled. The Champs-Elysées might be twentymiles off instead of at the door.The ruby eye flickered. There were sounds of somebodygetting in or out of the lift above. Hood pressed the buttonand when the lift descended, he got in. There was a maninside - small and natty, not one of the resident tycoons.Hood noted the English touches; the cast of features, the