“If we stay,” Grant was saying, “I can snatch you up in my arms.”

Sophy gaped at this uncanny distortion of her thoughts.

“In a cachucha, fandango, bolero or whatever,” he explained. “On the other hand—Do pay attention,” he said crossly. “I’m making a dead set at you.”

“How lovely,” Sophy rejoined. “I’m all ears.”

The rumpus subsided, the orchestra returned to its dais, the Negresses were changed back into naked pink chicks and retired. A mellifluous tenor, all eyes, teeth and sob-in-the-voice, came out and sang “Santa Lucia” and other familiar pieces. He too moved among his audience. Lady Braceley gave him a piece of everlasting greenery from her table decoration.

He was followed by the star of the programme, a celebrated black singer of soul music. She was beautiful, and disturbing, and a stillness came over the Cosmo when she sang. One of her songs was about hopelessness, injury and degradation and she made of it a kind of accusation. It seemed to Sophy that her audience almost disintegrated under her attack and she thought it strange that Lady Braceley, for instance, and Kenneth could sit and look appreciative and join so complacently in the applause.

When she had gone Grant said: “That was remarkable, wasn’t it?” Alleyn, overhearing him, said: “Extraordinary. Do modern audiences find that the pursuit of pleasure is best satisfied by having the rug jerked from under their feet?”

“Oh,” Grant said, “hasn’t that always been so? We like to be reminded that something is rotten in the state of Denmark. It makes us feel important.”

The programme ended with a very stylish ensemble, the lights were subdued, the band insinuated itself into dance music and Grant said to Sophy: “Come on. Whether you like it or not.”

They danced: not saying very much, but with pleasure.

Giovanni appeared and Lady Braceley danced with him. They did intricate things with great expertise.

The Van der Veghels, half-smiling, closely embraced, swayed and turned on sixpence, keeping to the darkened perimeter of the floor.

Major Sweet, who had made a willing but belated attempt upon Sophy, sank back in his chair, drank champagne and moodily discoursed with Alleyn. He was, Alleyn concluded, the sort of practiced drinker who, while far from being sober, would remain more or less in control for a long time. “Lovely little girl, that,” he said. “Natural. Sweet. But plenty of spunk, mind you. Looks you bang in the eye, what?” He maundered on rather gloomily: “Just a nice, sweet natural little girl — as I was saying.”

“Are you going on to this other show?” Alleyn asked.

“What about yourself?” countered the Major. “Fair’s fair. No names,” he added more obscurely, “no pack-drill that I’m aware of. Other things being equal.”

“I’m going, yes.”

“Shake,” invited the Major extending his hand. But finding that it encountered the champagne bottle he refilled his glass. He leant across the table.

“I’ve seen some curious things in my time,” he confided. “You’re a broadminded man. Everyone to his own taste and it all adds up to experience. Not a word to the ladies: what they can’t grieve about they won’t see. How old am I? Come on. You say. How old jer say I am?”

“Sixty?”

“—and ten. Allotted span, though that’s all my eye. See the rest of you out tonight, my boy.” He leant forward and looked dolefully at Alleyn with unfocussed eyes. “I say,” he said. “She’s not going on, is she?”

“Who?”

“Old Bracegirdle.”

“I believe so.”

“Gawd!”

“It’s pretty steep,” Alleyn suggested. “Fifteen thousand lire.”

“Better be good, what? I’m full of hopes,” leered the Major. “And I don’t mind telling you, old boy, I wouldn’t have been within coo-ee of this show tonight in the orinry way. You know what? Flutter. Green baize. Monte. And — phew!” He made a wild gesture with both arms. “Thassall — phew!”

“A big win?”

“Phew!”

“Splendid.”

And that, Alleyn supposed, explained the Major. Or did it?

“Funny thing about Mailer, don’t you think?” he asked.

“Phew!” said the Major, who seemed to be stuck with this ejaculation. “ ’Strordinary conduct,” he added. “Conduct unbecoming if you ask me but let it go.” He slumped into a moody silence for some moments and then shouted so loudly that people at the neighbouring table stared at him: “Bloody good riddance. ’Skuse language.”

After this he seemed disinclined for conversation and Alleyn joined Kenneth Dorne.

With the departure of the soul singer, Kenneth had slumped back into what seemed to be chronic inertia interrupted by fidgets. He made no attempt to dance but fiddled with his shirt ruffles and repeatedly looked towards the entrance as if he expected some new arrival. He gave Alleyn one of his restless, speculative glances. “You look marvellous,” he said. “Are you having a gay time?”

“An interesting time, at least. This sort of thing is quite out of my line. It’s an experience.”

“Oh!” Kenneth said impatiently. “This!” He shuffled his feet about. “I thought you were terrific,” he said. “You know. The way you managed everybody after Seb vanished. Look. Do you think he’s — you know — I mean to say — what do you think?”

“I’ve no notion,” Alleyn said. “I’ve never set eyes on the man before. You seem to be quite friendly with him.”

“Me?”

“You call him Seb, don’t you?”

“Oh well. You know. Just one of those things. Why not?”

“You find him helpful perhaps.”

“How d’you mean?” Kenneth said, eyeing him.

“In Rome. I rather hoped — I may be quite wrong, of course.” Alleyn broke off. “Are you going on to this late party?” he asked.

“Of course. And I don’t care how soon.”

“Really?” Alleyn said. And hoping he introduced the jargon correctly and with the right inflexion, he asked: “May one expect to meet ‘a Scene?’ ”

Kenneth swept his hair from his eyes with a finger tip.

“What sort of a scene?” he said cautiously.

“A group — a — have I got it wrong? I’m not turned on — is that right? — as yet. I want to ‘experience.’ You know?”

Kenneth now undisguisedly inspected him. “You look fabulous, of course,” he said. “You know: way up there. But—” He drew a rectangle with his forefingers in the air. “Let’s face it. Square, sweetheart. Square.”

“Sorry about that,” Alleyn said. “I was depending on Mr. Mailer to make the change.”

“Don’t let that trouble you. Toni’s terrific.”

“Toni?”

“Where we’re going, Toni’s pad. It’s the greatest. Groovy. You know? Grass, hard stuff, the lot. Mind you, he plays it cool. There’ll be a freak-out.”

“A—?”

“A happening. Psychedelic.”

“A floor show?”

“If you like — but way-out. Ever so trendy. Some people just go for giggles and come away. But if it sends you, which is what it’s for, you move on to the buzz.”

“Obviously you’ve been there before?”

“Not to decieve you, I have. Seb took us.”

“Us?”

“Auntie came too. She’s all for experience. She’s fabulous — honestly. I mean it.”

With considerable effort Alleyn said casually, “Did Seb — turn you on?”

“That’s right. In Perugia. I’m thinking,” Kenneth said, “of making the move.”

“To—?”

“The big leap. Pothead to mainliner. Well, as a matter of fact I’ve had a taste. You know. Mind you, I’m not hooked. Just the odd pop. Only a fun thing.”

Alleyn looked at a face that not so long ago might have been attractive. Policemen are as wary of reading character into other people’s faces as they are of betraying their thoughts in their own, but it occurred to him that if Kenneth were a less repellent colour and if he would shut his mouth instead of letting it droop open in a flaccid smirk he wouldn’t be a bad-looking specimen. He might, even at this stage, be less dissolute than his general behaviour suggested. “And whatever has happened or is about to happen to Mr. Sebastian Mailer,” Alleyn thought, “it cannot be one millionth fraction of what he most richly deserves.”