In the shadow cast by the packing-case Alleyn saw the table. The man who sat at it leant across the top and stared at them. His chin seemed to be on the surface of the table. His arms were stretched so far that his hands reached the opposite edge. It was an uncouth posture, the attitude of a scarecrow. They could see the lighter disc that was his face and the faint glint of his eyeballs. Alleyn had a torch in his pocket. He groped for it with one hand and held McCully’s arm with the other. McCully swore endlessly in a whisper.

The sharp beam of light ran from the torch to the table. It ended in the man’s face. It was the face of a gargoyle. The eyeballs started from their sockets, the protruding tongue was sulphur yellow. The face was yellow and blue. McCully wrenched his arm from Alleyn’s grasp and flung it across his eyes.

Alleyn walked slowly towards the table. The area of light widened to take in an overturned cup and a bottle. There was a silence of a minute broken by McCully.

“Oh, God!” said McCully. “Oh, God, help me! Oh, God!”

“Go back to your office,” said Alleyn. “Telephone Scotland Yard. Give this address. Say the message is from Inspector Alleyn. Ask them to send Fox, Bailey, and the divisional surgeon. Here!”

He turned McCully round, marched him towards the door and propped him against the wall.

“I’ll write it down.” He took out his note-book wrote rapidly and then looked at McCully. The large common face was sheet-white and the lips were trembling.

“Can you pull yourself together?” asked Alleyn. “Or had I better come with you? It would help if you could do it. I’m a C.I.D. officer. We’re looking for this man. Come now, can you help me?”

McCully drew the back of his hand across his mouth.

“He’s dead,” he said.

“Bless my soul, of course he is. Will you take this message? I don’t want to bully you. I just want you to tell me if you can do it.”

“Give us a moment, will you?”

“Of course.”

Alleyn looked up and down the alley.

“Wait here a minute,” he said.

He ran through the pelting rain to the top of the alley and looked into Cornwall Street. About two hundred yards away he saw a constable, walking along the pavement towards him. Alleyn waited for him, made himself known, and sent the man off to the nearest telephone. Then he returned to McCully.

“It’s all right, McCully, I’ve found a P.C. Sit down on this box. Here.” He pulled a flask from his pocket and made McCully drink. “Sorry I let you in for this,” he said. “Now wait here and don’t admit anyone. When I’ve turned up the light at the back of this place, close the doors. You needn’t look round.”

“If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’ll wait outside.”

“All right. Don’t speak to anyone unless they say they’re from the Yard.”

Using his torch, Alleyn went back to the far end of the room. He found the light switch, turned it on, and heard McCully drag the doors together.

The lamp at this end of the room was much more brilliant. By its light Alleyn examined the man at the table. The body was flaccid. Alleyn touched it, once. The man was dressed in an old mackintosh and a pair of shabby grey trousers. The hands were relaxed, but their position suggested that they had clutched the edge of the table. They were long, the square fingertips were lightly crusted with dry clay and the right thumb and forefinger were streaked with blue. On the backs of the hands Alleyn saw sulphur-coloured patches. Not without an effort he examined the terrible face. There were yellow spots on the jaw amongst the half-grown beard. The mouth was torn, and a glance at the finger-nails showed by what means. On the chin, the table and the floor Alleyn found further ghastly evidence of what had happened before the man died.

Alleyn dropped his silk handkerchief over the head.

He looked at the overturned bottle and cup. The bottle was marked clearly with a label bearing a scarlet cross. It was almost empty and from its neck a corroded patch spread over the table. The same marks appeared on the table round the cup. The table had been heavily coated with dust when the man sat at it. His arms had swept violently across the surface. The floor was littered with broken china and with curiously shaped wooden tools, rather like enormous orange-sticks. Alleyn looked at the feet. The shoes, though shabby and unpolished, had no mud on them. One foot was twisted round the chair-leg, the other had been jammed against the leg of the table. The whole posture suggested unspeakable torture.

Alleyn turned to the packing-case. It was five feet square and well made. One side was hinged and fastened with a bolt. It was not locked. He pulled on his gloves and, touching it very delicately, drew the bolt. The door opened smoothly. Inside the case, on a wheeled platform, was an irregularly shaped object that seemed to be swathed in clothes. Alleyn touched it. The cloths were still damp. “Comedy and Tragedy,” he murmured. He began to go over the floor. McCully’s and his own wet prints were clear enough, but as far as he could see, with the exception of the area round the table, the wooden boards held no other evidence. He turned his torch on the border where the floor met the wall. There he found a thick deposit of dust down the entire length of the room. In a corner there was a large soft broom. Alleyn looked at this closely, shook the dust from the bristles on to a sheet of paper and then emptied it into an envelope. He returned to the area of floor round the table and inspected every inch of it. He did not disturb the pieces of broken china there, nor the wooden tools, but he found at last one or two strands of dark-brown hair and these he put in an envelope. Then he looked again at the head of the dead man.

Voices sounded, the doors rattled open. Outside in the pouring rain was a police car and a mortuary van. Fox and Bailey stood in the doorway with McCully. Alleyn walked quickly towards them.

“Hullo, Fox.”

“Hullo, sir. What’s up?”

“Come in. Is Curtis there?”

“Yes. Ready, doctor?”

Dr. Curtis, Alleyn’s divisional surgeon, dived out of the car into shelter.

“What the devil have you found, Alleyn?”

“Garcia,” said Alleyn.

“Here!” ejaculated Fox.

“Dead?” asked Curtis.

“Very.” Alleyn laid his hand on Fox’s arm. “Wait a moment. McCully, you can sit in the police car if you like. We shan’t be long.”

McCully, who still looked very shaken, got into the car. A constable and the man off the local beat joined the group in the doorway.

“I think,” said Alleyn, “that before you see the body I had better warn you that it is not a pleasant sight.”

“Us?” asked Fox, surprised. “Warn us?”

“Yes, I know. We’re pretty well seasoned, aren’t we? I’ve never seen anything quite so beastly as this — not even in Flanders. I think he’s taken nitric acid.”

“Good God!” said Curtis.

“Come along,” said Alleyn.

He led them to the far end of the room, where the man at the table still sat with a coloured handkerchief over his face. Fox, Bailey and Curtis stood and looked at the body.

“What’s the stench?” asked Fox. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

“Nitric acid?” suggested Bailey.

“And other vomited matter,” said Curtis.

“You may smoke, all of you,” said Alleyn, and they lit cigarettes.

“Well,” said Curtis, “I’d better look at him.”

He put out his well-kept doctor’s hand and drew away the handkerchief from the face.

“Christ!” said Bailey.

“Get on with it,” said Alleyn harshly. “Bailey, I want you to take his prints first. It’s Garcia all right. Then compare them with anything you can get from the bottle and cup. Before you touch the bottle we’ll take a photograph. Where’s Thompson?”

Thompson came in from the car with his camera and flashlight. The usual routine began. Alleyn, looking on, was filled with a violent loathing of the whole scene. Thompson took six photographs of the body and then they covered it. Alleyn began to talk.