“You women,” he said. “You impossible women.”

“I’m all right. I simply felt giddy.”

“You ought to lie down. You’ll faint and make an exhibition of yourself.”

“No I won’t. Has anybody —?”

“Nobody’s noticed anything. Will you go up to your room for half an hour?”

“I haven’t got a room. It’s not my house.”

“Of course it’s not. The cloakroom, then.”

“I — yes. Yes, I’ll do that.”

“Sir Daniel!” shouted Lucy Lorrimer in the corner.

“For Heaven’s sake go back to her,” implored Lady Carrados, “or she’ll be here.”

“Sir Daniel!”

“Damn!” whispered Davidson. “Very well, I’ll go back to her. I expect your maid’s here, isn’t she? Good. Lord Robert, will you take Lady Carrados?”

“I’d rather go alone. Please!”

“Very well. But please go.”

He made a grimace and returned to Lucy Lorrimer.

Lady Carrados stood up, holding her bag.

“Come on,” said Lord Robert. “Nobody’s paying any attention.”

He took her elbow and they went out into the hall. It was deserted. Two men stood just in the entrance to the cloakroom. They were Captain Withers and Donald Potter. Donald glanced round, saw his uncle, and at once began to move upstairs. Withers followed him. Dimitri came out of the buffet and also went upstairs. The hall was filled with the sound of the band and with the thick confusion of voices and sliding feet.

“Bunchy,” whispered Lady Carrados. “You must do as I ask you. Leave me for three minutes. I—”

“I know what’s up, m’dear. Don’t do it. Don’t leave your bag. Face it and let him go to the devil.”

She pressed her hand against her mouth and looked wildly at him.

“You know?”

“Yes, and I’ll help. I know who it is. You don’t, do you? See here — there’s a man at the Yard — whatever it is—”

A look of something like relief came into her eyes.

“But you don’t know what it’s about. Let me go. I’ve got to do it. Just this once more.”

She pulled her arm away and he watched her cross the hall and slowly climb the stairs. After a moment’s hesitation he followed her.

Alleyn closed his file and looked at his watch. Two minutes to one. Time for him to pack up and go home. He yawned, stretched his cramped fingers, walked over to the window and pulled aside the blind. The row of lamps hung like a necklace of misty globes along the margin of the Embankment.

“Fog in June,” muttered Alleyn. “This England!”

Out there in the cold, Big Ben tolled one. At that moment three miles away at Lady Carrados’s ball, Lord Robert Gospell was slowly climbing the stairs to the top landing and the little drawing-room.

Alleyn filled his pipe slowly and lit it. An early start tomorrow, a long journey, and a piece of dull routine at the end of it. He held his fingers to the heater and fell into a long meditation. Sarah had told him Troy was going to the ball. She was there now, no doubt.

“Oh, well!” he thought and turned off his heater.

The desk telephone rang. He answered it.

“Hullo?”

“Mr Alleyn? I thought you were still there, sir. Lord Robert Gospell.”

“Right.”

A pause and then a squeaky voice:

“Rory?”

“Bunchy?”

“You said you’d be at it till late. I’m in a room by myself at the Carrados’s show. Thing is, I think I’ve got him. Are you working for much longer?”

“I can.”

“May I come round to the Yard?”

“Do!”

“I’ll go home first, get out of this boiled shirt and pick up my notes.”

“Right. I’ll wait.”

“It’s the cakes-and-ale feller.”

“Good Lord! No names, Bunchy.”

“ ’Course not. I’ll come round to the Yard. Upon my soul it’s worse than murder. Might as well mix his damn’ brews with poison. And he’s working with — Hullo! Didn’t hear you come in.”

“Is someone there?” asked Alleyn sharply.

“Yes.”

“Good-bye,” said Alleyn, “I’ll wait for you.”

“Thank you so much,” squeaked the voice. “Much obliged. Wouldn’t have lost it for anything. Very smart work, officer. See you get the reward.”

Alleyn smiled and hung up his receiver.

Up in the ballroom Hughie Bronx’s Band packed up. Their faces were the colour of raw cod and shone with a fishy glitter, but the hair on their heads remained as smooth as patent leather. The four experts who only ten minutes ago had jigged together with linked arms in a hot rhythm argued wearily about the way to go home. Hughie Bronx himself wiped his celebrated face with a beautiful handkerchief and lit a cigarette.

“OK, boys,” he sighed. “Eighty-thirty tomorrow and if any — calls for ‘My Girl’s Cutie’ more than six times running we’ll quit and learn anthems.”

Dimitri crossed the ballroom.

“Her ladyship particularly asked me to tell you,” he said, “that there is something for you gentlemen at the buffet.”

“Thanks a lot, Dim,” said Mr Bronx. “We’ll be there.”

Dimitri glanced round the ballroom, walked out and descended the stairs.

Down in the entrance hall the last of the guests were collected. They looked wan and a little raffish but they shouted cheerfully, telling each other what a good party it had been. Among them, blinking sleepily through his glasses, was Lord Robert. His celebrated cape hung from his shoulders and in his hands he clasped his broad-brimmed black hat. Through the open doors came wreaths of mist. The sound of people coughing as they went into the raw air was mingled with the noise of taxi engines in low gear and the voices of departing guests.

Lord Robert was among the last to go.

He asked several people, rather plaintively, if they had seen Mrs Halcut-Hackett. “I’m supposed to be taking her home.”

Dimitri came up to him.

“Excuse me, my lord, I think Mrs Halcut-Hackett has just left. She asked me if I had seen you, my lord.”

Lord Robert blinked up at him. For a moment their eyes met.

“Oh. Thank you,” said Lord Robert. “I’ll see if I can find her.”

Dimitri bowed.

Lord Robert walked out into the mist.

His figure, looking a little like a plump antic from one of Verlaine’s poems, moved down the broad steps. He passed a crowd of stragglers who were entering their taxis. He peered at them, watched them go off, and looked up and down the street. Lord Robert walked slowly down the street, seemed to turn into an insubstantial wraith, was hidden for a moment by a drift of mist, reappeared much farther away, walking steadily into nothingness, and was gone.

In his room at the Yard Alleyn woke with a start, rushing up on a wave of clamour from the darkness of profound sleep. The desk telephone was pealing. He reached out for it, caught sight of his watch and exclaimed aloud. Four o’clock! He spoke into the receiver.

“Hullo?”

“Mr Alleyn?”

“Yes.”

He thought: “it’s Bunchy. What the devil—!”

But the voice in the receiver said:

“There’s a case come in, sir. I thought I’d better report to you at once. Taxi with a fare. Says the fare’s been murdered and has driven straight here with the body.”

“I’ll come down,” said Alleyn.

He went down thinking with dismay that another case would be most unwelcome and hoping that it would be handed on to someone else. His mind was full of the blackmail business. Bunchy Gospell wouldn’t have said he’d found his man unless he was damn certain of him. The cakes-and-ale fellow. Dimitri. Well, he’d have opportunities, but what sort of evidence had Bunchy got? And where the devil was Bunchy? A uniformed sergeant waited for Alleyn in the entrance hall.

“Funny sort of business, Mr Alleyn. The gentleman’s dead all right. Looks to me as if he’d had a heart attack or something, but the cabby insists it was murder and won’t say a word till he sees you. Didn’t want me to open the door. I did, though, just to make sure. Held my watch-glass to the mouth and listened to the heart. Nothing! The old cabby didn’t half go off pop. He’s a character.”