“That’s him,” whispered Gwen. “That’s Magoulias. You were right.”

“Right about him being there,” said Iris. “I was wondering if he was in cahoots with the first fellow and they had a falling out. This actually makes more sense to me.”

“We still don’t know who Magoulias was working for.”

“That’s what tonight is for.”

“Right,” said Gwen, sitting down heavily.

“Are you all right?” asked Iris.

“Seeing his face again,” said Gwen. “It makes me remember it from when we found him. I see his eyes whenever I close mine.”

“Do you want to give Dr. Milford a ring? Maybe he could squeeze you in for a quick tune-up.”

“It’s not an emergency,” said Gwen. “I have to learn how to get through these crises without running to him for help straightaway.”

“If it’s any consolation, you got through Saturday’s events splendidly, in my opinion.”

“Thanks. I guess I did, relatively speaking. Apart from going into catatonia on the boat.”

“Luckily, Sally had the antidote on hand.”

“I don’t want whisky to be the answer to every problem.”

“Of course not. Just the important ones. Why, we’ve gone almost two days without finding another dead body. I think that’s progress, don’t you?”

Gwen shuddered. Iris laughed, then took her notepad and scribbled something. She tore the page off and put it in an envelope, then sealed it.

The messenger returned, muffin crumbs still noticeable on his shirt. Iris handed him the envelope.

“Give this to Mr. Cornell,” she instructed him. “Tell him that I will call when I know the time and place, and to bring a voucher.”

“Yes, Mum.” He saluted and left.

“One more piece of news,” said Gwen. “I have a lead on Vivienne Ducognon. I spoke to Lorraine Calvert, and she thinks that her husband’s cousin’s wife has a French lady’s maid. I could try calling on her on the way here tomorrow.”

“Fine. Now, pass me the telephone. I’m going to call Jimmy. And then perhaps we should try and match a few people while we’re here?”

“God, I’ll be glad when this is over and done with,” said Gwen. “Investigating murders does get in the way of one’s actual work.”

J. B. Smalley & Sons was an upscale shop selling prints and lithographs near the theatre district off Earlham Street. James B. Smalley, its proprietor, was a tall, elegant man, always impeccably dressed, with an encyclopedic knowledge of art and printmaking. He was also known in certain circles as Jimmy the Scribe, one of London’s top forgers until the Metropolitan Police put an abrupt end to his career and his liberty in the mid-thirties. He was known in even smaller circles as the top maker of forged papers for British Intelligence during the war, which was why his liberty had been restored.

No one knew what the “B” stood for. Those who knew Smalley’s past suspected that the “Sons” were nonexistent, added to confer further respectability on a newly forged life. He confined his lawless leanings to consulting for various British intelligence services and the police. Iris and Gwen had come to him on their previous investigation and had found him invaluable.