He took something from his coat, looked at it closely and ran it across his wet fingers. Then he moved it slowly up and down over his open hand.
‘This is a little French razor,’ he said quietly. ‘Perhaps you know them. They do not cut very far into the throat but they cut very cleanly, I find. In just a minute, I am going to show you how well they cut. But first, I must ask the question that I always ask: is the razor to your liking, sir?’
He stood up: small and very dangerous. He walked over to Hewson as slowly and quietly as a cat going after a bird.
‘Please be so good as to put your head back a little. Thank you. And now a little more. Just a little more. Ah, thank you! That’s right, Monsieur … Thank you … Thank you …’
