Christine, her back to Dixon, was sitting as immobile as if she’d been mummified. Bertrand, still talking, was smoking a black cigar. Why was he doing that? A sudden douche of terror then squirted itself all over Dixon. After a moment he realized that this was because he had a plan and was about to carry it out. He panted a little with the enormity of it, then drained his glass and said quaveringly: ‘Here goes, then. Good-bye for now.’
