“Whose murder?”

“Why, Bunchy Gospell’s.”

“Was Lord Robert Gospell a personal friend of yours, Captain Withers?”

“I didn’t know him.”

“I see. Why do you think he was murdered?”

“Well, wasn’t he?”

“I think so. Evidently you think so. Why?”

“Judging from the papers it looks like it.”

“Yes, doesn’t it?” said Alleyn. “Won’t you sit down, Captain Withers?”

“No, thanks. What about this morning?”

“When did you leave Marsdon House?”

“After the ball was over.”

“Did you leave alone?”

Withers threw his cigarette with great accuracy into a tin waste-paper bin.

“Yes,” he said.

“Can you remember who was in the hall when you went away?”

“What? I don’t know that I can. Oh, yes. I bumped into Dan Davidson. You know. The fashionable quack.”

“Is Sir Daniel Davidson a friend of yours?”

“Not really. I just know him.”

“Did you notice Lord Robert in the hall as you left?”

“Can’t say I did.”

“You went out alone. Did you take a taxi?”

“No. I had my own car. It was parked in Belgrave Road.”

“So you turned to the left when you went away from Marsdon House. That,” said Alleyn, “is what the murderer, if there is, as you say, a murderer, must have done.”

“Better choose your words a bit more carefully, hadn’t you?” enquired Captain Withers.

“I don’t think so. As far as I can see my remark was well within the rules. Did you see any solitary man in evening dress as you walked from Marsdon House to Belgrave Road? Did you overtake or pass any such person?”

Withers sat on the edge of the table and swung his foot. The fat on his thighs bulged through his plaid trouser leg.

“I might have. I don’t remember. It was misty.”

“Where did you go in your car?”

“To the Matador.”

“The night club in Sampler Street?”

“That’s right.”

“Did you meet anybody there?”

“About a hundred and fifty people.”

“I mean,” said Alleyn with perfect courtesy, “did you meet a partner there by arrangement?”

“Yes.”

“May I have her name?”

“No.”

“I shall have to find out by the usual routine,” murmured Alleyn. “Make a note of it will you, Fox?”

“Very good, Mr Alleyn,” said Fox.

“You can produce no witness to support your statement that you drove to the Matador from Marsdon House?”

The swinging foot was suddenly motionless. Withers waited a moment and then said: “No.”

“Perhaps your partner was waiting in your car, Captain Withers. Are you sure you did not drive her there? Remember there is a commissionaire at the Matador.”

“Is there?”

“Well?”

“All right,” said Withers. “I did drive my partner to the Matador but I shan’t give you her name.”

“Why not?”

“You seem to be a gentleman. One of the new breed at the Yard, aren’t you? I should have thought you’d have understood.”

“You are very good,” said Alleyn, “but I am afraid you are mistaken. We shall have to use other methods, but we shall find out the name of your partner. Have you ever studied wrestling, Captain Withers?”

“What? What the hell has that got to do with it?”

“I should be obliged if you would answer.”

“I’ve never taken it up. Seen a bit out East.”

“Ju-jitsu?”

“Yes.”

“Do they ever use the side of the hand to knock a man out? On one of the vulnerable points or whatever you call them? Such as the temple?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Have you any medical knowledge?”

“No.”

“I see some text-books over there by the bed.”

“They don’t belong to me.”

“To Mr Donald Potter?”

“That’s right.”

“He is living here?”

“You’ve been talking to him, haven’t you? You must be a bloody bad detective if you haven’t nosed that out.”

“Do you consider that you have a strong influence over Mr Potter?”

“I’m not a bear leader!”

“You prefer fleecing lambs, perhaps?”

“Is that where we laugh?” asked Withers.

“Only, I am afraid, on the wrong side of our faces. Captain Withers, do you recollect the Bouchier-Watson drug-running affair of 1924?”

“No.”

“You are fortunate. We have longer memories at the Yard. I am reminded of it this morning by certain notes left in his private papers by Lord Robert Gospell. He mentions the case in connection with recent information he gleaned about an illicit gambling club at Leatherhead.”

The coarse white hands made a convulsive movement which was immediately checked. Alleyn rose to his feet.

“There is only one other point,” he said. “I believe your telephone is disconnected. Inspector Fox will fix that. Fox, will you go out to the post office at the corner? Wait a second.”

Alleyn took out his notebook, scribbled: “Get Thompson to tail W at once,” and showed it to Fox. “Give that message, will you, and see that Captain Withers’s telephone is reconnected immediately. As soon as it’s through, ring me here. What’s the number?”

“Sloane 8405,” said Withers.

“Right. I’ll join you, Fox.”

“Very good, sir,” said Fox. “Good morning, sir.”

Withers did not answer. Fox departed.

“When your telephone is working again,” Alleyn said, “I would be glad if you’d ring up Mr Donald Potter to suggest that as his mother is in great distress, you think it would be well if he stayed with her for the time being. You will send his property to Cheyne Walk in a taxi.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“No. I am warning you. You are in rather uncertain country at the moment, you know.”

Alleyn walked over to the divan bed and looked at the books.

“Taylor’s Medical Jurisprudence,” he murmured. “Is Mr Potter thinking of becoming a medical jurist?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea.”

Alleyn ruffled the pages of a large blue volume.

“Here we have the fullest information on asphyxia. Very interesting. May I borrow this book? I’ll return it to Mr Potter.”

“I’ve no objection. Nothing to do with me.”

“Splendid. Have you any objection to my looking at your dress clothes?”

“None,” said Withers.

“Thank you so much. If you wouldn’t mind showing them to me.”

Withers walked into the bedroom and Alleyn followed him. While Withers opened his wardrobe and pulled open drawers Alleyn had a quick look round the room. Apart from the photograph, which was frankly infamous, the only item of interest was a row of paper-bound banned novels of peculiar indecency and no literary merit whatsoever.

Withers threw a tail coat, a white waistcoat and a pair of trousers on the bed. Alleyn examined them with great care, smelt the coat and turned out the pockets, which were empty.

“Had you a cigarette-case?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“May I see it?”

“It’s in the next room.”

Withers went into the sitting-room. Alleyn, with a cat-like swiftness, looked under the bed and in at a cupboard door.

Withers produced a small, flat silver case.

“Is this the only case you possess?”

“It is.”

Alleyn opened it. The inside lid was inscribed: “Maurice from Estelle.” He returned it and took another from his pocket.

“Will you look at this case carefully, please, and tell me if you have seen it before?”

Withers took it. It was a thin, smooth, gold case, uninscribed, but with a small crest in one corner.

“Open it, will you, please?”

Withers opened it.

“Do you know it?”

“No.”

“You don’t by any chance recognise the crest?”

“No.”

“It is not Mr Donald Potter’s crest, for instance?”

Withers made a quick movement, opened his mouth, shut it again and said:

“It isn’t his. I’ve seen his. It’s on his links. They’re here somewhere.”

“May I see them?” said Alleyn, taking the case.

Withers crossed to the dressing-table. Alleyn rapidly wrapped his silk handkerchief round the case and put it in his pocket.

“Here they are,” said Withers.