‘He seemed quite an honest-to-God sort of fellow, really,’ pronounced Nigel. ‘I think it was that stuff about being ashamed of his affair with the model that put me off him. It sounded spurious. Anyway, it’s the sort of thing one doesn’t talk about to people one has just met.’

‘Under rather unusual conditions,’ Alleyn pointed out.

‘Certainly. All the same, he talks too much.’

‘The remark about bounding journalists and miserable gup was perhaps gratuitous.’

‘I didn’t mean that,’ said Nigel in a hurry.

‘I’m inclined to agree with you. Let us see Miss Valmai Seacliff, Brer Fox.’

‘I wish you wouldn’t make me coil up in that chair,’ complained Nigel when Fox had gone. ‘It’s plaguily uncomfortable and right in a draught. Can’t I just be here, openly? I’d like to have a look at this lovely.’

‘Very well. I suppose you’ll do no harm. The concealment was your own suggestion, if you remember. You may sit at the desk and make an attempt to look like the Yard.’

‘You don’t look much like it yourself in your smart gent’s dinner jacket. Tell me, Alleyn, have you fallen in love with Miss Troy?’

‘Don’t be a fool, Bathgate,’ said Alleyn, with such unusual warmth that Nigel’s eyebrows went up.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Merely a pleasantry. No offence and so on.’

‘I’m sorry, too. You must forgive me. I’m bothered about this case.’

‘There, there,’ said Nigel. ‘Coom, coom, coom, it’s early days yet.’

‘True enough. But suppose Garcia walks in with a happy smile in answer to our broadcast? That bit of clay in the drape. Acid marks and no acid to make ‘em. This legendary warehouse. Clay models of comedy and tragedy melted into the night. Damn, I’ve got the mumbles.’

The door was thrown open, and in came Valmai Seacliff, followed by Fox. Miss Seacliff managed to convey by her entrance that she never moved anywhere without a masculine satellite. That Inspector Fox in his double-breasted blue serge was not precisely in the right manner did nothing to unsettle her poise. She was dressed in a silk trousered garment. Her hair was swept off her forehead into a knot on the nape of her neck. Moving her hips voluptuously, she walked rather like a mannequin. When she reached the chair Alleyn had pushed forward, she turned, paused, and then sank into it with glorious certainly of a well trained show-girl. She stared languidly at Nigel, whose hand had gone automatically to his tie.

‘Well, Mr Alleyn?’ said Miss Seacliff.

The three men sat down. Alleyn turned a page of his tiny notebook, appeared to deliberate, and embarked upon the familiar opening.