He departed hurriedly, before Mr James could press his offer home. A fine drizzle had set in, the sky was leaden, and already the light had begun to fade. Alleyn turned up the collar of his raincoat, pulled down the brim of his hat and strode off in the direction of Brixton Prison. Cornwall Street ran along one side of the waterworks and Gulper Row was a grim and deadly little alley off Cornwall Street. Lacker and Lampton’s was at the far end. It was a barn of a place and evidently combined wrecking activities with the trade in used cars. The ground floor was half full of spare parts, chassis without wheels, engines without chassis, and bodies without either.

Alleyn asked for Mr Ted McCully, and in a minute or two a giant in oil-soaked dungarees came out of a smaller workshop, wiping his hands on a piece of waste.

‘Yes, sir?’ he asked cheerfully.

‘I’m looking for an empty room with a good light to use as a painting-studio,’ Alleyn began. ‘I called in at the estate agents, behind the prison, and Mr James there said he thought you might have something.’

‘Bert James?’ said Mr McCully with a wide grin. ‘What’s he know about it? Looking for a commission as per usual, I’ll bet.’

‘Have a cigarette. Will that thing stand my weight?’

‘Thank you, sir. I wouldn’t sit there; it’s a bit greasy. Take the box.’

Alleyn sat on a packing-case.

‘Have you any vacant rooms that would do to paint in?’

‘Not here, we haven’t, but it’s a funny thing you should ask.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Well, it’s a bit of a coincidence,’ said Mr McCully maddeningly.

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. The world’s a small place, you know, sir. Isn’t it, now?’

‘No bigger than a button,’ agreed Alleyn.

‘That’s right. Look at this little coincidence, now. I dare say you’ve had quite a ramble looking for this room you want?’

‘I have rambled since eleven o’clock this morning.’

‘Is that a fact? And then you look in on Bert James and he sends you round here. And I’ll swear Bert knows nothing about it, either. Which makes it all the more of a coincidence.’

‘Makes what, though?’ asked Alleyn, breathing through his nostrils.

‘I was just going to tell you,’ said Mr McCully. ‘You see, although we haven’t got the sort of thing you’d be wanting, on the premises, there’s a bit of a storehouse round the corner that would do you down to the ground. Skylight. Paraffin heater. Electric light. Plenty of room. Just the thing.’

‘May I—’

‘Ah! Wait a bit, though. It’s taken. It’s in use in a sort of way.’

‘What sort of way?’

‘That’s the funny thing. It was taken by an artist like yourself.’

Alleyn flicked the ash off his cigarette.

‘Really?’ he said.