3.12 p.m. The big pelicans fly past, skimming the water, motionless.
3.24 p.m. The police burst into the photographic laboratory with the secret exit where E. Manroy is busy operating. Although Angelica von Salomon was taken away several hours ago, the two men easily recognize this innocent special-effects enthusiast as the Dr. William Morgan whose disconnected trail they have been following since the morning. The latter had reached that point in the account of the crime where the bride with the over-intimate jewellery, tied to a target in the position of a St. Andrew's cross, is being diced for by the marksmen who, one by one, now turn their astonished faces towards the intruders, and are still.
3.36 p.m. Again the stone falling.
Motionless, as I said, alone, with the only sound from now on, off and on, that of water dripping to no purpose in a space that has become even smaller, as I was saying . . . What did I say? What did I do?
Recollections of the Golden Triangle Page 15