“I suppose so.”

“Except, perhaps, Malmsley. Could Malmsley have stayed behind and not caught the six o’clock bus? Where’s the stuff about Malmsley?”

Fox got a file from the desk and thumbed it over.

“Here we are, sir. I saw the conductor of the six o’clock this morning. He says four people got on at Bossicote corner on Friday evening. One woman and three men. He’s a dull sort of chap. I asked him if any of the men had beards and he said he couldn’t rightly remember, but he thinks one had a very wide-brimmed hat and wore a muffler, so he might have had a beard. Silly sort of chap. We did see a wide-brimmed affair in Malmsley’s wardrobe, too, but we’ll have to try and get closer to it than that.”

“Yes. If Malmsley did it, what about his dinner at the Savoy and his late night with his friend? I suppose he could have driven the caravan, killed Garcia and left the body here at about seven to eight-thirty, come back after he’d seen his friend to bed, and done all the rest of it. But how the devil did he get back from the studio to London after returning the caravan?”

“That’s right.” Fox licked his thumb and turned a page. “Now, here’s Miss Troy and Miss Bostock. Their alibis are the only ones we seem to have a chance of breaking among the London push. They’ve been checked up all right and were both seen by the club night porter when they came in, Miss Bostock at about one o’clock and Miss Troy at two-twenty. I’ve seen Miss Troy’s friend, Mr. Bellasca, and he says he took her back to the club at two-twenty or thereabouts. So that fits.”

“Is he a reliable sort of fellow?”

“I think so, sir. He’s very concerned on Miss Troy’s behalf. He’s been ringing her up, but apparently she didn’t exactly encourage him to go down there. He’s a very open sort of young gentleman and said she always treated him as if he was a schoolboy. However, the time at the club’s all right. The porter says definitely he let Miss Troy in at two-twenty. She exclaimed at the time, he says, so he remembered that. He says neither she nor Miss Bostock came out again, but he sits in a little cubby-hole by the lift, and may have dozed off. The garage is open all night. Their car was by the door. The chap there admits he slipped out to the coffee stall at about three o’clock.” Fox glanced up from the notes, looked fixedly at Alleyn’s white face, and then cleared his throat. “Not that I’m suggesting there’s anything in that,” he said.

“Go on,” said Alleyn.

“Well, sir, we may still admit there’s a possibility in the cases of these two ladies and Malmsley. On the evidence in this file I’d say all the others are wash-outs. That leaves us with what you might call a narrowed field. The Hon. Basil Pilgrim, Miss Seacliff, Miss Troy, Miss Bostock, and Mr. Malmsley.”

“Yes. Oh Lord, Fox, I forgot to ask Bathgate if he had any success with Miss Bobbie O’Dawne. I must be sinking into a detective’s dotage. I’d better go along and tell the A.C. about this afternoon. Then I’ll write up my report and I think this evening we’d better go broody on the case.”

Alleyn had a long interview with his Assistant Commissioner, a dry man with whom he got on very well. He then wrote up his report and took Fox off to dine at his own flat in a cul-de-sac off Coventry Street. After dinner they settled down over the fire to a systematic review of the whole case.

At eleven o’clock, while they were still at it, Nigel turned up.

“Hullo,” said Alleyn, “I rather wanted to see you.”

“I guessed as much,” said Nigel complacently.

“Get yourself a drink. How did you hit it off with Bobbie O’Dawne? I see your extraordinary paper has come out strong with a simpering portrait.”

“Good, isn’t it? She liked me awfully. We clicked.”

“Anything to the purpose?”

“Ah, ah, ah! Wouldn’t you like to know!”

“We are not in the mood,” said Alleyn, “for comedy.”

“All right. As a matter of fact, I’m afraid from your point of view the visit was not a howling success. She said she wouldn’t have Sonia’s name blackened in print and gave me a lot of stuff about how Sonia was the greatest little pal and a real sport. I took her out to lunch and gave her champagne, for which I expect the Yard to reimburse me. She got fairly chatty, but nothing much to the purpose. I told her I knew all about Sonia’s little blackmailing games with Pilgrim and Malmsley, and she said that was just a bit of fun. I asked her if Sonia had the same kind of fun with anybody else, and she told me, with a jolly laugh, to mind my own business. I filled up her glass and she did get a bit unreserved. She said Garcia found out Sonia had told her about the Pilgrim game. Garcia was absolutely livid and said he’d do Sonia in if she couldn’t hold her tongue. Of course, Sonia told Bobbie all this and made her swear on a Bible and a rosary that she wouldn’t split to anyone. It was at this stage, Alleyn that Bobbie took another pull at her champagne and then said — I memorised her actual words—‘So you see, dear, with an oath like that on my conscience I couldn’t say anything about Friday night, could I?’ I said: ‘How d’you mean?’ and she said: ‘Never mind, dear. She oughtn’t to have told me. Now I’m scared. If he knows she told me, as sure as God’s above us he’ll do for me, too.’ And then, as there was no more champagne, the party broke up.”

“Well — I’ll pay for the champagne,” said Alleyn. “Damn this girl, Fox, she’s tiresome. Sink me if I don’t believe she knows who had the date with Garcia on Friday night. She’s proved that it wasn’t Sonia. Sonia spent the week-end with her. Well — who was it?”

The telephone rang. Alleyn picked up the receiver. “Hullo. Yes, Bailey? I see. He’s sure of that? Yes. Yes, I see. Thank you.”

He put down the receiver and looked at Fox.

“The hole on the cuff of Pilgrims’ coat was made by an acid. Probably nitric acid.”

“Is that so?” said Fox. He rose slowly to his feet.

“There’s your answer!” cried Nigel. “I don’t see how you can get away from it, Alleyn. You’ve got motive and opportunity. You’ve got evidence of a man who stood in the lane and looked in at the studio window. It might just have been Malmsley, but by God, I think it was Pilgrim.”

“In that case,” said Alleyn, “we’ll call on Captain and Mrs. Pascoe at Boxover, where Pilgrim and Miss Seacliff spent the night. Run along, Bathgate. I want to talk to Inspector Fox. I’m most grateful for your work with Bobbie O’Dawne, and I won’t tell your wife you spend your days with ladies of the chorus. Good evening.”

The inquest on the body of Sonia Gluck was held at Bossicote on the morning of Thursday, September 22nd. The court, as might have been expected, was jammed to the doors; otherwise the proceedings were as colourless as the coroner, a gentleman with an air of irritated incredulity, could make them. He dealt roundly with the witnesses and with the evidence, reducing everything by a sort of sleight-of-hand to a dead norm. One would have thought that models impaled on the points of poignards were a commonplace of police investigation. Only once did he appear to be at all startled and that was when Cedric Malmsley gave evidence. The coroner eyed Malmsley’s beard as if he thought it must be detachable, abruptly changed his own glasses, and never removed his outraged gaze from the witness throughout his evidence. The barest outline of the tragedy was brought out. Alleyn gave formal evidence on the finding of Garcia’s body, and the court was fraught with an unspoken inference that it was a case of murder and suicide. Alleyn asked for an adjournment, and the whole thing was over by eleven o’clock.

In the corridor Alleyn caught Fox by the arm.

“Come on, Brer Fox. We’re for Boxover. The first stop in the pilgrimage. I’ve got my mother’s car— looks less official. It’s over there — wait for me, will you?”