While Bailey and Thompson worked, Alleyn continued his tour of the room. He pulled back the cover of the divan and saw an unmade bed beneath it. ‘Bad mark for Mr Garcia.’ Numbers of stretched canvases stood with their faces to the wall. Alleyn began to inspect them. He thought he recognized a large picture of a trapeze artiste in pink tights and spangles as the work of Katti Bostock. That round, high-cheeked face was the one he had seen dead a few minutes ago. The head and shoulders had been scraped down with a knife. He turned another big canvas round and exclaimed softly.

‘What’s up, sir?’ asked Fox.

‘Look.’

It was a portrait of a girl in a green velvet dress. She stood, very erect, against a white wall. The dress fell in austere folds about the feet. It was most simply done. The hands looked as though they had been put down with twelve direct touches. The form of the girl shone through the heavy dress, in great beauty. It was painted with a kind of quiet thoughtfulness.

But across the head where the paint was wet, someone had scrubbed a rag, and scratched with red paint an idiotic semblance of a face with a moustache.

‘Lor’,’ said Fox, ‘is that a modern idea, too, sir?’

‘I hardly think so,’ murmured Alleyn. ‘Good God, Fox, what a perfectly filthy thing to do. Don’t you see, somebody’s wiped away the face while the paint was wet, and then daubed this abortion on top of the smudge. Look at the lines of paint—you can see a kind of violence in them. The brush has been thrust savagely at the canvas so that the tip has spread. It’s as if a nasty child had done it in a fit of temper. A stupid child.’

‘I wonder who painted the picture, sir. If it’s a portrait of this girl Sonia Gluck, it looks as if there’s been a bit of spite at work. By gum, it’d be a rum go if the murderer did it.’

‘I don’t think this was Soma,’ said Alleyn. ‘There’s a smudge of blonde hair left. Sonia Gluck was dark. As for the painter—’ He paused. ‘I don’t think there’s much doubt about that. The painter was Agatha Troy.’

‘You can pick the style, can you?’

‘Yes.’

With a swift movement Alleyn turned the canvas to the wall. He lit a cigarette and squatted on his heels.