‘I reckon it is,’ said Bailey. ‘We’d never have got it if it hadn’t been for the clay. It looks to me, Mr Alleyn, as if he’d only half done the job. There’s no prints on the knife, so I suppose he held that with a cloth or wiped it after he’d finished. It must have been a paint-rag, because there’s a smudge of blue on the knife. You may remember there were the same blue smudges on the throne and the easel-ledge that was used to hammer in the dagger. Now, this print we got from the bit of paint-rag that you suggested was used to wipe off the prints. Some of the paint on the rag was only half dry, and took a good impression. It matches the paint smudges on the knife. Blue.’

‘Garcia’s?’

‘That’s correct, sir.’

‘This about settles it, Mr Alleyn,’ said Fox.

‘That Garcia laid the trap? I agree with you.’

‘We’ll have to ask for more men. It’s going to be a job getting him, sir. He had such a big start. How about letting these alibis wait for today, Mr Alleyn?’

‘I think we’d better get through them, but I tell you what, Fox. I’ll ask for another man and leave the alibi game to the pair of you. I’m not pulling out the plums for myself, Foxkin.’

‘I’ve never known you do that, Mr Alleyn, don’t you worry. We’ll get through these alibis,’ said Fox. ‘I’d like to see what our chaps are doing round the Holloway district.’

‘And I,’ said Alleyn, ‘think of going down to Brixton.’

‘Is that a joke?’ asked Fox suspiciously, after a blank pause.

‘No, Fox.’

‘Brixton? Why Brixton?’

‘Sit down for a minute,’ said Alleyn, ‘and I’ll tell you.’

CHAPTER 17
The Man at the Table

At four o’clock on the following afternoon, Wednesday, September 21st, Alleyn turned wearily into the last land and estate agents’ office in Brixton. A blond young man advanced upon him.

‘Yes, sir? What can I have the pleasure of doing for you?’

‘It’s not much of a pleasure, I’m afraid. If you will, and if you can, tell me of any vacant warehouses in this district, or of any warehouses that have let part of themselves to artists, or of any artists who, having rented such premises, have taken themselves off to foreign parts and lent the premises to a young man who sculps. As you will probably have guessed, I am an officer of Scotland Yard. Here’s my card. Do you mind awfully if I sit down?’

‘Er—yes. Of course not. Do,’ said the young man in some surprise.

‘It’s a weary world,’ said Alleyn. ‘The room would be well lit. I’d better show you my list of all the places I have already inspected.’