‘Ta,’ he said and signalled to Alleyn, ‘Yes, ta. Mind repeating that? Description tallies with that of “Dinky Dickson”, con man 1964. Sus. drug contact Kings Cross, Sydney. Place of origin unknown but claims to be Australian. Believed to be—Here! What’s that? Oh! Oh, I get you! Unfrocked clergyman. Australian police got nothing on him since May ‘67 when heavy sus. drug racket but no hard proof. Very plausible type. Ta. And the US lot? Two hundred and seven left-ear-deficients on FB records. No Hewsons. Might be Deafy Ed Moran, big-time fix, heroin, Chicago, undercover picture-dealing. Expatriated Briton but speaks with strong US accent. Sister works with him; homely, middle-aged, usually known as Sis. No convictions since 1960 but heavy sus., Foljambe—here, wait a sec. This is important—heavy sus., Foljambe—accomplice. Message ends. Ta. What about Pollock, then? Anything come through? Pardon?’

Mr Tillottson’s pen hovered anxiously. ‘Pardon?’ he repeated. ‘Oh. Wait a wee, till I get it down. One time commercial artist. No present known occupation but owns property, is in the money and living well. Nothing in Records? OK? And the other two? Natouche and Bard? Nothing. What’s that? Yes, we’ve got that stuff about his practice in Liverpool. What? Laurenson and Busby, London? Tutorial Service? Spends his vacations chasing butterflies. Known to who? British Lepi—Oh. Given his name to what? Spell it out. L.A.P.A.Z.B.A.R.D.I.I. What’s that when it’s at home? A butterfly? Ta. Yes. Yes. Mr Alleyn’s come in. I’ll tell him, then. Thanks.’

Alleyn said: ‘Don’t hang up. Let me have a word.’ He took the receiver. ‘Alleyn here,’ he said. ‘Look, I heard all that but I’d like men to call immediately at all the addresses. Yes. Liverpool, too. Yes, I know. Yes, but nevertheless—right. And ring us back, will you? Yes.’

He hung up. ‘Well, Bert,’ he said, ‘what have you got in your back parlour? Let’s take a look, shall we?’

‘Better see this first, hadn’t you?’

Tillottson unlocked a wall safe and from it took an object like a miniature pudding tied up in chamois leather and attached to a cord. ‘I haven’t opened it,’ he said.

Alleyn opened it, cautiously. ‘Good God!’ he said.

There it lay, on a police officer’s desk in an English market town: an exotic if ever there was one: a turquoise enamel ovoid, starred with diamonds and girt with twelve minuscule figures decked out in emeralds and rubies and pearls, all dancing in order round their jewelled firmament. Aries, Taurus, Gemini—. ‘The old gang’ Alleyn said. ‘It’s an Easter egg by Fabergé, Fox, and the gift of an Emperor. And now—what a descent!—we’ve got to try it for dabs.’ He looked at Thompson and Bailey. ‘Job for you,’ he said.