Alleyn pointed a long finger at Nigel’s final sentence.

“Mr. Bathgate’s bright idea for the day,” he said.

“Yes,” said Fox. “It looks nice and simple just jotted down like that.”

“The thing’s quite neat in its way, Fox.”

“Yes, sir. And I think he’s got the right idea, you know.”

“Garcia?”

“Yes. Don’t you?”

“Oh Lord, Fox, you’ve heard my trouble. I don’t see how we can be too sure.”

“There’s that bit of clay with his print on it,” said Fox. “On the drape, where it had no business.”

“Suppose it was planted? There’d be any number of bits like that lying on the floor by the window. We found some. Let’s get Bailey’s further report on the prints, shall we?”

Alleyn rang through to Bailey’s department and found that Bailey had finished his work and was ready to make a report. In a minute or two he appeared with a quantity of photographs.

“Anything fresh?” asked Alleyn.

“Yes, sir, in a sort of a way there is,” said Bailey, with the air of making a reluctant admission.

“Let’s have it.”

Bailey laid a set of photographs on Alleyn’s desk.

“These are from the empty whisky bottle under Garcia’s bed. We got them again from different parts of the bed-frame, the box underneath and the stool he used for his work. Some of them cropped up on the window-sill and there’s a good thumb and forefinger off the light switch above his bed. These”—he pointed to a second group—“come from bits of clay that were lying about the floor. Some of them were no good, but there’s a couple of clear ones. They’re made by the same fingers as the first lot. I’ve marked them ‘Garcia.’ ”

“I think we may take it they are his,” said Alleyn.

“Yes. Well then, sir, here’s the ones off the opium-box and the pipe. Four of those I’ve identified as Mr. Malmsley’s. The others are Garcia’s. Here’s a photo of the clay pellet I found in the drape. Garcia again. This set’s off the edge of the throne. There were lots of prints there, some of them Mr. Hatchett’s some Mr. Pilgrim’s and some the French bloke’s — this Mr. Ormerin. They seem to have had blue paint on their fingers, which was useful. But this set is Garcia’s again and I found it on top of the others. There were traces of clay in this lot, which helped us a bit.”

Alleyn and Fox examined the prints without comment. Bailey produced another photograph and laid it on the desk.

“I got that from the drape. Took a bit of doing. Here’s the enlargement.”

“Garcia,” said Alleyn and Fox together.

“I reckon it is,” said Bailey. “We’d never have got it if it hadn’t been for the clay. It looks to me, Mr. Alleyn, as if he’d only half done the job. There’s no prints on the knife, so I supposed he held that with a cloth or wiped it after he’d only half done the job. There’s nothing on the knife but a smudge of blue. You may remember there were the same blue smudges on the throne and the easel-ledge that was used to hammer in the dagger. Now, this print we got from the bit of paint-rag that you suggested was used to wipe off the prints. Some of the paint on the rag was only half dry, and took a good impression. It matches the paint smudges on the knife. Blue.”

“Garcia’s.”

“That’s correct, sir.”

“This about settles it, Mr. Alleyn,” said Fox.

“That Garcia laid the trap? I agree with you.”

“We’ll have to ask for more men. It’s going to be a job getting him, sir. He had such a big start. How about letting these alibis wait for to-day, Mr. Alleyn?”

“I think we’d better get through them, but I tell you what, Fox. I’ll ask for another man and leave the alibi game to the pair of you. I’m not pulling out the plums for myself, Foxkin.”

“I’ve never known you to do that, Mr. Alleyn, don’t you worry. We’ll get through these alibis,” said Fox. “I’d like to see what our chaps are doing round the Holloway district.”

“And I,” said Alleyn, “think of going down to Brixton.”

“Is that a joke?” asked Fox suspiciously, after a blank pause.

“No, Fox.”

“Brixton? Why Brixton?”

“Sit down for a minute,” said Alleyn, “and I’ll tell you.”

At four o’clock on the following afternoon, Wednesday, September 21st, Alleyn turned wearily into the last land and estate agents’ office in Brixton. A blond young man advanced upon him.

“Yes, sir? What can I have the pleasure of doing for you?”

“It’s not much of a pleasure, I’m afraid. If you will, and if you can, tell me of any vacant warehouses in this district, or of any warehouses that have let part of themselves to artists, or of any artists who, having rented such premises, have taken themselves off to foreign parts and lent the premises to a young man who sculps. As you will probably have guessed, I am an officer of Scodand Yard. Here’s my card. Do you mind awfully if I sit down?”

“Er — yes. Of course not. Do,” said the young man in some surprise.

“It’s a weary world,” said Alleyn. “The room would be well lit. I’d better show you my list of all the places I have already inspected.”

The list was a long one. Alleyn had continued his search at eleven o’clock that morning.

The blond young man ran through it, muttering to himself. Occasionally he cast a glance at his immaculately dressed visitor.

“I suppose,” he said at last, with an avid look towards an evening paper on the corner of his desk, “I suppose this wouldn’t happen to have any connection with the missing gentleman from Bucks?”

“It would,” said Alleyn.

“By the name of Garcia?”

“Yes. We believe him to be ill and suffering from loss of memory. It is thought he may have wandered in this direction, poor fellow.”

“What an extraordinary thing!” exclaimed the young man.

“Too odd for words,” murmured Alleyn. “He’s a little bit ga-ga, we understand. Clever, but dottyish. Do you think you can help us?”

“Well now, let me see. This list is pretty comprehensive. I don’t know if— ”

He bit his finger and opened a large book. Alleyn closed his eyes.

“It’s not exactly in our line, really,” said the young man. “I mean to say, any of the warehouses round here might have a room to let and we’d never hear of it. See what I mean?”

“Alas, yes,” said Alleyn.

“Now there’s Solly and Perkins. Big place. Business not too good, they tell me. And there’s Anderson’s shirt factory, and Lacker and Lampton’s used-car depot. That’s in Guiper Row, off Cornwall Street. Just by the waterworks. Opposite the prison. Quite in your line, Inspector.”

He laughed shrilly.

“Damn’ funny,” agreed Alleyn.

“Lacker and Lampton’s foreman was in here the other day. He’s taken a house from us. Now, he did say something about there being a lot of room round at their place. He said something about being able to store his furniture there if they went into furnished rooms. Yes. Now, I wonder. How about Lacker and Lampton’s?”

“I’ll try it. Could you give me the foreman’s name?”

“McCully’s the name. Ted McCully. He’s quite a pal of mine. Tell him I sent you. James is my name. Look here, I’ll come round with you, if you like.”

“I wouldn’t dream of troubling you,” said Alleyn firmly. “Thank you very much indeed. Good-bye.”

He departed hurriedly, before Mr. James could press his offer home. A fine drizzle had set in, the sky was leaden, and already the light had begun to fade. Alleyn turned up the collar of his raincoat, pulled down the brim of his hat and strode off in the direction of Brixton Prison. Cornwall Street ran along one side of the waterworks and Guiper Row was a grim and deadly little alley off Cornwall Street. Lacker and Lampton’s was at the far end. It was a barn of a place and evidently combined wrecking activities with the trade in used cars. The ground floor was half full of spare parts, chassis without wheels, engines without chassis, and bodies without either.