‘Good-looking chap, sir,’ whispered Cottingham, echoing his thoughts. ‘No one’s idea of a villain, I’m sure.’

‘The best-looking bloke I’ve ever set eyes on stuck a knife in the throat of a young child and damn nearly shot me,’ said Joe wryly. ‘Shall we go in and get the measure of this Adonis?’

Donovan stood politely when they entered, looking them firmly in the eye as names and ranks were announced. ‘The inspector and I have already met,’ he murmured, acknowledging Cottingham with a warm smile.

They seated themselves and Cottingham produced a notebook and fountain pen.

‘Your name, please?’ asked Joe. ‘And your address and occupation. For the record.’

‘It hasn’t changed since the inspector last enquired on Saturday night. I still answer to the name of Thomas Donovan. I still may be reached at the Ritz where I have a room and I work there in the position of night porter, occasionally desk clerk. I also man the telephones.’ His voice was a pleasant baritone with only a trace of a softening Irish accent. His smile, quizzical and deprecating, took the edge off any possible sharpness in the response. He added, confidingly, ‘Dogsbody, you’re thinking, of course, and so it is, but when I’m trying to impress I’m apt to say Assistant Manager.’

Joe fought down an instinctive reaction to answer in the light, conspiratorial tone that the man was trying to elicit. ‘Thank you. Yes, we have the Ritz statement on your employment. With records of your duties on the night in question. Tell me, Mr Donovan, why are you so favoured as to be allocated a room in the hotel?’

‘Ah, that’ll be due to the unsocial hours I have to work and the extra duties. If I’m there on the spot they feel free to call on me whenever they have a staffing problem. Day or night. It suits them. It suits me fine. Being an unmarried man with no ties.’

‘And the number and floor of your room?’

Cottingham’s pen was poised for his answer.

‘Oh, it’s number 12 on the top floor. Not the finest accommodation – under the leads you might say – but it does well enough.’

Joe was aware that Cottingham, next to him, had become perfectly still like a spaniel on the point.

‘Tell us where you were, will you, between midnight and one o’clock on Saturday night.’

‘I was on duty in the back office, on call. There was no call until the emergency occurred. That would have been at about twelve forty when the manager came in to alert me to the situation. He telephoned Scotland Yard from my office, it being more discreet than the front desk, and told me to stay alert and cover for him while he dealt with the police and the disposal of the unfortunate deceased.’

Joe let the impersonal words echo for a moment then, his voice hardening, said, ‘Tell me, Donovan, was the deceased fortunate enough to be acquainted with you?’

‘I was able to arrange Dame Beatrice’s accommodation when she stayed with us. She liked to return to the same suite.’

‘She had a flat up in Bloomsbury, I believe. Why did she need to stay at the hotel?’

‘She was a busy lady. Hard-working. Many calls on her time. She was rich. She needed and could afford to be cosseted from time to time. When she met her important military and naval contacts, she liked to be picked up from the Ritz. Handy for the Admiralty. It suited her well.’

‘Were there any other services you performed for Dame Beatrice?’ Joe asked bluntly.

Donovan lit another cigarette, taking his time. Not needing a pause for thought, Joe was sure; the man had already carefully rehearsed his script. He was teasing them, trying to trigger a heavy police response so that his triumph when he launched his no doubt impeccable alibi would be all the more satisfying.

‘Oh, yes. Busy ladies can be very lonely, Commander. I don’t know if you were acquainted with her?’ He gave Joe a slow and insolent appraisal. ‘No? Dame Beatrice was . . . emotional and sensitive. She appreciated the occasional presence of a warm-blooded man. A discreet man.’

‘A man whose room was conveniently located on the floor above her suite?’

‘Yes, of course. There is a flight of stairs . . . as I suppose you’ve noticed . . . not for the use of staff in normal circumstances, you understand, but I have never been challenged.’

‘And were you booked in to attend the Dame on the evening in question?’

Cottingham had stopped breathing.

‘I was to go to her room when my shift ended.’

‘And what time was your shift scheduled to end?’

‘At six o’clock.’

‘What? Six o’clock? In the morning?’ Cottingham could not hide his astonishment.

‘It was usual,’ said Donovan with a half-smile. ‘Dame Beatrice’s energy and . . . libido, if I may use a technical term? . . . were apt to peak in the early hours. Neatly coinciding with the masculine urges, as I’m sure I don’t need to explain to two men of the world.’

‘Good Lord!’ said Cottingham faintly.

‘So we have you in the back office from midnight onwards, ticking off the hours until it should be six,’ said Joe. ‘Can anyone vouch for your presence there?’

Donovan looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘You could speak to Jim Jordan. The boot-boy. Poor Jim finds it difficult to stay awake through his nightly duties – the lad’s only fourteen. He often brings his boots into my office and works on them there. I keep him awake with stories and merry banter. He likes the company. He was there from eleven when he came on duty until the manager burst in with his news at twelve forty. Jim will be able to confirm that I was there on the ground floor at the time in which you are interested.’

‘And your first act on hearing the news of the murder of your lover was to pick up the telephone and alert the press?’ said Joe coldly.

Donovan shrugged his shoulders. ‘We all need what cash we can come by these days. They pay well. And I wouldn’t flatter myself by calling her my lover . . .’

‘Very well then – client,’ said Joe sharply. ‘How about that? Is that the term a gigolo would use?’

He was pleased to see a flush of anger begin to light up the controlled features.

‘We will of course check on the facts you have given us this morning, Mr Donovan. And perhaps, before leaving, you would allow the constable to take a sample of your fingerprints.’

‘For purposes of elimination, naturally,’ said Donovan.

‘Naturally.’

As he reached the door, Joe spoke again. ‘Donovan? . . . Irish, I believe? Which part of Ireland do you hail from, I wonder?’

‘County Antrim.’

‘Ah? As did Sir Roger Casement? The county would seem to produce its share of . . . handsome men.’

Joe seemed to have at last got under the man’s skin. He turned from the door and spoke quietly, his lilting accent now unrestrained: ‘You’ll be referring to the notorious traitor, Casement? Executed by the British? Yes, I understand him to have been born in Antrim. Now tell me – was not William Wallace born a Scot and Guy Fawkes an Englishman – like your honours? We all have to share our native soil with rogues and villains and misunderstood heroes, don’t we now? Well, gentlemen, if there is nothing further I can do for you, I will return to my duties.’

‘You let him go off? Just like that?’ Cottingham was squeaking with distress. Realizing he was on the point of insubordination he collected himself and hurried on, ‘Sir, was that wise? Weren’t there many more questions we had to put to the bastard?’

‘Hundreds,’ Joe replied calmly. ‘But until I’ve done a bit more research into the character and career of Mr Donovan I’m going to let him run loose. Look, Ralph, when you’ve finished at the Ritz, make a few enquiries at the Admiralty, will you? Check this bloke’s record with the navy. We’ll need to know what rank he reached and why he left . . . how did his path cross that of the Dame . . . what were his specialities . . . you know the sort of thing. I’ll give you a number to ring and the name of a contact.’